


#BoyfriendTag

by captaincuppy, for_autumn_i_am



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Biting, Blindfolds, Bloodplay, Breathplay, Bruises, Consensual BDSM, Cuddling & Snuggling, Did we mention the fluff, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub Undertones, Dry Humping, Fetish, First Time, Hand Jobs, Handcuffs, Humiliation kink, Kinky, Knifeplay, Loads of it, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Phone Sex, Quickies, Rimming, Rope Bondage, Rough Sex, Sensory Deprivation, Sex Toys, Skype Sex, Spanking, Teasing, there's fluff, youtube au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-28
Updated: 2016-11-28
Packaged: 2018-05-03 20:23:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 74,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5305592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captaincuppy/pseuds/captaincuppy, https://archiveofourown.org/users/for_autumn_i_am/pseuds/for_autumn_i_am
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a technologically more advanced Gotham, Oswald [23] is a successful youtuber. He falls in love with geeky med student Ed Nygma.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**HI, OSWALD HERE | xXxThEpEnGuInxXx**

“Hello! My name is Oswald Cobblepot.”

He made his first video seven years ago. Blue hairspray and rubber bracelets were still in style, but his fashion choices weren’t even the most embarrassing thing about his vlogs.

They were badly lit, mostly unedited, and utterly depressing. He’d flatter himself by calling them honest, but truth be told, he was always a dirty little liar. He was aiming for sympathy. He didn’t get any.

Re-watching them years later was like standing in front of the mirror, naked, late at night. He couldn’t quite recognise his features, prying on the collection of shamefully private moments.

He’d tell everyone who was willing to pay attention what he had for breakfast and which of his classmates he hated the most that week. It was the false intimacy of trivial knowledge.

Then the vlogs got deeper, darker, almost sublime.

Then he stopped making them.

And when he returned - he returned with a vengeance.

 

**FISHING FOR COMPLIMENTS #BURNBABYBURN 7 | xXxThEpEnGuInxXx**

They say that if you defeat your enemy, their powers will possess you. Oswald was hungry for Fish’s glory. The girl was a twenty-something beauty guru, a real pro, and the seventh would-be victim of Oswald’s very own show, #BurnBabyBurn.

His thriving followers were licensed haters. The internet despises losers, so Oswald had decided, with some cannibalistic instinct, to turn on his own kind and feast on their failures. One tiny mistake, and Oswald was at their throats, tearing them apart with sticks and stones.

He’d pop his tongue, looking directly into the camera. First, the whisper:

“Burn, baby, burn.”

Then, the laughter.

His fellow YouTubers turned to ashes. He’d choose the ones who had a handful of faithful followers. With Fish, he went for a big shot.

With Fish, he made a mistake.

You see, he was quite well-known by then, notorious, even. He bought a fucking Canon camera, a microphone, and a light set for beginners. He’d sit in HD in his faux-Victorian leather armchair, legs spread, smile even.

“I’d call the fashion police on Fish for that wig alone, but I’m afraid it’d do some serious damage on the officers. It looks alive. I’m legit scared.”

He earned some nasty comments. Some thousand nasty comments, to be exact, and not just on YouTube, oh no: Fish’s fans were everywhere, they hunted him down on tumblr and twitter, and he even received death threats on his home address, mailed by a certain cat13.

It made him angry, miserable and helpless.

Then Fish herself made him utterly humiliated.

 

**xXxTHEPENGUINxXx MAKEUP TUTORIAL | ___fish___**

Fish applied the BB cream while _Flawless_ boomed in the background.

_Don’t forget it, dont’t forget it / Respect that, bow down bitches / (Crown!)_

“Put some powder on your teeth as well - at least _something’s_ gotta be white in your dirty mouth.”

Oswald’s hands were shaking. He was staring at the screen without blinking. Fish’s slim fingers, adorned with gold rings, were slowly taking him apart.

“I’m using _Punk Wannabe_ eyeliner in the shade of _Aubergine Arsehole._ Make sure your lines ain’t even. Smudge it, or just punch yourself in the eye for the same effect.” Fish’s glance met the camera. She purred like a panther, a predator sinking its teeth in their pitiful prey. _Don’t forget about the beak, darlings. Just shove an icepick in your face._

He kept getting comments: “like if Fish brought you here.”

For months, he’d hear her voice when he put on his makeup. It used to mean safety. He could cover his freckles and bring attention to his eyes, the one thing he was proud of. Grey eyeshadow. Black eyeliner. Looking less like an emo kid from junior high and more like a fucking rock star. After Fish’s video, after all the comments, he couldn’t feel the buzz anymore.

If he squinted, he could almost make out their words written on his face, permanently marking him. He knew them by heart.

And one day - one day he simply decided not to give a flaming fuck.

 

**GTA V ONLINE / BEST MOMENTS WITH BUTCHR!! | xXxThEpEnGuInxXx**

A collab saved his ass. He got BUTCHR to play GTA V with him, and subscribers rushed in to hear more of Oswald’s salt. Within a few weeks, his followers doubled the numbers of Fish’s loyal fanbase.

The ugly thing is, BUTCHR was totally BFF with Fish (friendship bracelets and everything), so making him collaborate with Oswald took a certain amount of creativity. Victory4Zsazs was involved. So yeah. Enough said.

Oswald was now king of Gotham.

 

**MINIMAL PARIS HAUL | xXxThEpEnGuInxXx**

By the time he was twenty-one, he got the reputation of being cool, cruel, ruthless, ambitious beyond measure and above all: entertaining. And that was all that mattered.

He was everyone’s most beloved problematic fav.

He swiftly dropped out of college, bought an apartment strongly resembling a vampire chamber, sent expensive gifts to his mother via FedEx, made videos every two days, and lived the dream.

It was exactly like a dream.

“Hey there, sweet sphenisciformes! I know, long time no see. Gotta excuse me, my social life got in the way.”

What actually happened was this: he spent three days in the same underwear, under the cold covers of a king sized bed. He didn’t draw apart the heavy velvet drapes: the darkness was soft, almost _plushy_ , suffocating. The air conditioning was on and on and on. The striped wallpapers seemed to be melting, as if the apartment was also bored to death.

Oswald couldn’t even bring himself to order takeout. He ate leftover fishfingers with mustard and kidney beans, and left the plates lying around on the ground.

Sometimes, he was lying on his stomach. Other times, he was lying on his back. He felt every creeping moment.

On the second day he filled the copper tub, and once the bath was ready, he decided he wasn’t feeling like it.

He listened to the same songs over, and over, and over again, then the music completely stopped. He listened to the faint traffic noises of the city. He could hear helicopters passing and his neighbors downstairs shouting and either murdering twelve monkeys with a chainsaw or having really weird sex. He couldn’t care less.

And then it was over. He took a shower. Styled his hair. Shaped his eyebrows. Highlighted the dark circles under his eyes, so they looked deliberate. Cleaned his lacey septum, put it in. Ironed a dark shirt, put on a pretty waistcoat, painted his nails matte black. Sat down in his favourite armchair.

The double-paned windows were open. Opaque lights poured in. Oswald was sitting there, stone fireplace in the background, some grotesque baroque sculptures, strange mirrors and many-many candles, and he said:

“Hey there, sweet sphenisciformes! I know, long time no see. Gotta excuse me, my social life got in the way.”

 

**2015 VIDCON VLOG: DAY #1 | xXxThEpEnGuInxXx**

“‘Twas literally the best damn day in the history of best damn days,” Oswald announced. He filmed this part once he was back in the hotel, his designer trash shirt with studs and rhinestones disarranged, his makeup completely ruined, voice hoarse, and still, he was positively _beaming_.

He couldn’t quite recall the best damn day in the history of best damn days. He was drunk on triumph. He was twenty-three, and having the time of his life, having those Big Fucking Moments he promised himself he’d have.

His name, screamed, shouted, written on printed selfies, forearms, fanarts. The high-fives on tiptoes. The squeezy handshakes. The sweat and the tears.

The squeak his shoes made as he limped on the stage. No one fucking cared anymore how he had to drag his busted leg. The wings of his vinyl coat seemed to be carrying him. He had his Canon with him, filming the living proof of his success: every glittering eye, every waving hand.

He turned his back to take a selfie, eyebrows arched. He popped his tongue.

“Burn, baby, burn!” the crowd howled.

He filmed the afterparty, dishevelled images dimmed by dry ice, vivid lights and psychedelic rock. Shadowy figures moved, jumping out of the mist, dissolving in thin air. The last frame reflected the gaze of a grim guy, visibly checking out Oswald.

He took a selfie in the mirror of the men’s room, chin up, long neck exposed. He lifted his arm, fingers spreading on the collar like spider legs. The pale lights illuminated his face just right - he didn’t even need a filter.  
_#trash #punk #grunge #vidcon #thePenguin #followme #OswaldCobblepot_

The door opened and someone stepped to the neighboring faucet. Their eyes met in the mirror and widened in recognition.

“Hello.”

Oswald pouted. He couldn’t remember the guy’s name - he had long hair and an eyepatch and he _might have been_ the lead singer in some acapella punk band.

“Digged your panel,” the guy said, turning to him. “Big fan. Congrats.”

“Dig your jacket. The shoes? Mmm. Not convinced.”

The guy half laughed, half barked, his head lolling back.

Oswald checked him out, licking his lips. He had a thing for tall and lean guys with dark eye(s) and good cheekbones.

And the guy’s leather jacket was really quite sexy.

The guy bit his lower lip, and asked, voice husky and the air around them suddenly heavy:  
“What’s it gonna be then, eh?”

They made out in one of the toilet stalls, trembling, breathless. The guy tasted of tar and sour champagne. He grabbed Oswald’s hair, pulling his head back, and palmed his erection through his trousers.

Oswald panted, and seized the guy’s belt. They stared at each other, gasping, lips meeting again and again.

“Suck my dick?” the guy asked.

“No fucking way.”

He just shrugged.

“Okay then.”

They settled for a handjob, cocks squeezed together in their joined hands. Oswald was the first to come, with quick squirts and a dry gasp. Utterly spent, he leaned back, and closing his eyes, he whispered:

“Jizz on my pants, you’re dead.”

 

**Cobblepot went CobbleNOT at VidCon (vs Jim Gordon) // H_Bullocks**

On the second day it all went straight to hell.

In his vlog, Oswald talked about the meet and greet, his live beauty Q&A with QueenBee aka Barbara Kean, and he never mentioned Jim Fucking Gordon once - which was kinda ironic, considering that he wouldn’t shut up about how he was looking forward to meet the guy.

It was a friendship crush. Oswald was well past the mistake of falling for heterosexuals. He wanted a buddy. A confidant. A _comrade._ Jim seemed to be the kind of fellow you could grab a beer with and spill your heart out.

On the other hand, he was a social justice vlogger. It should’ve been a warning sign.

“Hey, Jim, hey!” he waved with both hands, limping towards him, looking exactly like a penguin. Jim stopped dead in his tracks. “So good to finally see you, whoa!”

Jim grimaced. With a forced smile, he waved back.

“Hello yourself.”

Oswald offered his hand.

“It’s such a big moment for me. So sorry, I-I’m kinda starstruck. Got a minute?”

“Actually, no, but hey man, take care.”

Jim gave him a thumbs up, and fucking fled. And Oswald should’ve left it to that. Jim’s been perfectly civil. Sure, it was disappointing, but whatever.

Problem is, they had an audience. Forty, fifty people tops, including Harvey Bullock, and most of them had cameras and phone phones with them. And he and Jim - they starred. So Oswald shouted:

“Gotta rush to the restroom to take that stick out of your ass, eh?”

Well. It was not the best method to make friends. He earned some claps and fleeting laughter, but it all died down as Jim turned back.

“You know what?” he growled. “You’re a fucking disgrace.”

“Come again?”

It took only a few steps, and Jim had him cornered. He was a big guy, wide-shouldered, muscular, and he used his strength to shove Oswald against the nearest metal column. Somebody gasped, and Harvey hoorayed.

“You’re only popular because you humiliate others. You’re a bloody parasite. People only love you because they love to hate. I’m watching you, understand?”

He should’ve said:

_“I’d hope so. You know, that’s kind of the point of having a YouTube channel.”_

He should’ve popped his tongue, winked and smiled. Everyone was waiting for a comeback, but his mind was blank. Jim gave him a whole fucking speech, and he just took it. He stood there, small and helpless, his face drained, eyes wide, and all he could think about was _don’t fucking cry._

Within minutes, it was all over the internet.

 _The penguin got burned._ Someone even started a kickstarter to get him some ice.

It wasn’t even the worst part.

The worst part was standing there, paralyzed, powerless, surrounded by fans, and knowing that none of them will step forward. None of them will do anything to protect him.

Because Jim was fucking right.

 

**SPECIAL ANNOUNCMENT | xXxThEpEnGuInxXx**

This is his newest video. It’s hardly a minute long. Oswald’s spread over the leather armchair. Rock plays in the background, vindictive, violent.

“Someone’s gotta burn.”

He’s in the soft spotlight, staring blankly at his own reflection. His hands, helplessly spread, flash.

“No idea who.” He’s searching for the words. His gaze is clouded. Slowly licking his lips, he looks up. “Why don’t you tell me?” He leans in.

 _Pop._ There it is.

“Ladies, gentlemen, others: for the first time ever, it’s your decision. Leave a comment. I’ll give you the Fifth of November. Think bonfire. Think _pyre._ ”

Cut. He’s got sunglasses on. He’s humming, biting his nails.

“It’s gonna be… amusing.”

He reaches out, turning off the camera. There’s no outro this time, no self-promotion, no nothing.

Then the comments pour in. It’ a level four tsunami at least.

Oswald’s still online when the first few hundred suggestions come. They’re all a waste of his time: the recommended YouTubers are either too famous or virtually nonexistent. Oswald’s disappointed, but not remotely surprised.

He’s having cereal for a late midnight snack and heads to bed. He’s still hungry when he curls up under the covers.

He’s sleeping til three. He’s in front of the laptop within five minutes, an unlit cigarette between his dry lips. He’s wearing nothing but silky trunks, hair a mess, craving a hot cup of tea, but he doesn’t feel like making it. He checks the comments, his thoughts still mostly with a streaming Earl Grey.

The top comment got more than five-hundred likes. Interesting. It says:

 

 **Lark** 1 day ago  
Screw the R1DDL3R.  
Reply +573

 

He lights the cigarette, eyebrows arched. The screen is too bright, he should draw back the drapes and let in the dusty lights of Gotham.

 

View all 18 replies ˇ

 **CRiver** 1 day ago  
HOLY SHIT WHO’S THIS CREEP AND WHERE DID YOU FIND HIM??  
Reply +21

 

 **jayjayjay** 1 day ago  
reddit  
Reply +5

 

 **electronicsheeps** 1 day ago  
Reddit creepy vids.  
Reply + 1

 

 **BOSSWORTH** 1 day ago  
oh god  
Reply

 

 **raven.** 1 day ago  
Im scared??  
Reply + 11

 

 **Tonggsss** 1 day ago  
ok he’s gotta burn  
Reply +16

 

 **hAmMeR** 1 day ago.  
He was featured on Reddit.  
Reply

No url attached, of course. Oswald inhales the smoke and exhales it through his nose as he’s typing. R-1-D-D-L-3-R.

He clicks the first vid which comes up. It’s the viral one. The others got like forty views _alles zusammen._

 

**WHAT AWAITS US IN THE ABYSS? | R1DDL3R**

Riddler takes himself quite seriously. He’s even got a long ass intro. Oswald rolls his eyes, and when he looks at the screen again, Riddler is staring back.

“Okay,” Oswald says. “Okay, I’ll screw the Riddler. Anytime. With pleasure.”

“Howdy-do!” He raises his hand with a stiff, wide smile. “Riddler here; okay, actually, it’s Ed.”

Ed’s slim and bony, brown hair carefully combed into the haircut of WWI soldiers haunted by nightmares. His eyes are dark and deep behind the glasses. There’s something eerie in his facial motions, his ever-changing expressions and taunt shoulders. There’s something about him, Oswald decides, which is both sinister and sexy.

He leans back in the armchair, the leather sticking to his naked skin.

“I have neither beginning nor end, yet I touch the world’s corners,” Ed says. “What am I?” He pauses. It’s a long pause. A very long pause. “The ocean!” he shouts then, and Oswald flinches. “We’re going to dissect me today. Let’s see what we can find inside my belly.”

The screen is suddenly filled with the fugliest fish ever created. Its stomach is big, transparent, and…

“Oh my God,” Oswald whispers.

“Let me introduce you to _Chiasmodon Niger_ , the Black Swallower! It’s also called the Great Swallower.”

The camera is back on Ed, and Oswald sucks the cigarette.

“That’s right,” he mumbles. “You’re a good boy, you swallow.”

“I cannot begin to describe how fascinating this creature is! Although it’s only about seven inches long…”

“Whoa, seven inches is more than enough for me, baby.”

“...it can swallow prey twice its size and ten times its mass, and it swallows them whole…”

“Glad to hear it.”

“...and bony fishes are its favourite! _Rawrrr!_ ” Ed imitates a bite. His teeth are white and uneven. There’s no music to his video, it’s almost ten minutes long, and it’s nothing but Ed babbling and staring into the lens. It’s like Oswald would have him there with him in the muddy darkness.

Once it’s over, Oswald clicks on the next video.

Then the next.

And the next.

 

Ninety minutes later Oswald’s in the kitchen, and as he puts a cup of water in the microwave he realises he’d given _ninety minutes_ to Ed. His mouth is a fucking wasteland.

He hops on the counter. The kitchen is classy black with an untouched, antique charm - Oswald never used it for cooking. He combs his hair back with his fingers, and freezes.

He should start filming right fucking now. By this time he should have the script outlined.

He doesn’t have any shade to throw. None. Ed is just too… bright. Sure, he’s awkward and amateurish and far too enthusiastic, but he has all that intelligence to make up for it. His brain is quite simply amazing. He’s like the lovechild of Wikipedia and Google, a human supercomputer filled with data and trivia, but like, handsome. And cute. Not to mention adorable.

Still. Oswald won’t be tricked.

So Ed’s got comfy sweaters from sweater heaven, and geeky glasses and a goofy grin and a shitload of horrible riddles, but there’s that dark wisdom in his glances and danger in his smiles.

The microwave pings. Oswald plunges a teabag in the hot water and forgets about it within three minutes.

He spends roughly forty years in the bathroom and another eleven by his dressing table. He walks into his closet without the faintest idea what to put on. He clenches his fists. 

He’s having sushi for late lunch, sitting on the counter, and bite by bite, he’s reminded of the abyss.

Trying to get distracted, he tweets a short message:

 

 **Oswald Cobblepot** @xXxThEpEnGuInxXx 1m  
_#hh. ask away. #thepenguinreplies_

 

It’s anything but sufficient to take his mind off Ed. He’s always getting the same silly questions. Are you gay? Are you single? Where did you buy this or that? Is it from the webshop you fucking linked to the description? What would be your superpower?

He visits Ed's channel just so he won’t get horribly bored. He watches the ones entitled “ _Does the Human Heart Still Beat On Once It’s Torn Out?_ ” and “ _How Could You Use the Dead Bodies on Mt Everest_?” and “ _What Science Owes to Nazi Human Experiments?_ ” for good measure, and before he knows it, he’s bingewatching “ _Are There Antiallergic Nuts?_ and “ _Are Lobsters Immortal?_ ”

The answers are rather upsetting, by the way.

Ed’s chatting about a tumor which can grow teeth and hair, when Oswald notices _the_ mug. _The_ mug only appears as Ed takes a quick sip, but the text on it is still legible: _my bookshelf is my boyfriend._  
Oswald’s bi-fi catches signal.

He can’t take it anymore. He goes shopping. He leaves his phone behind; it’s like chopping off an arm. He spends the afternoon with recording and editing a haul featuring all the shit he spent his hard-earned money on, but he’s not like super committed.

He googles R1DDL3R. Turns out his full name is Edward Nygma. He’s on Facebook. Oswald doesn’t add him. He keeps on googleing.

Edward Nygma won a riddle competition back in high school. He’s a med student of sorts, something to do with pathology; it’s not clear. He has a thing for question marks and Oswald cannot decide whether it’s a perversion or a part of his identity; probably both.

He turns off the laptop.

Well past midnight he heads to bed. He’s tossing and turning under the black covers. The pale neon lights of Gotham illuminate the thick baldachin. Some drunk is singing from the top of his lungs and sirens wail by.

An hour later he’s still wide awake, and he’s kicking off the covers. He puts on an all night long shirt and shuffles off to the balcony barefoot.

He’s got his phone and a pack of cigarettes. The air smells of stuffy asphalt; smoke and mist veil the view. He sits down on a wrought iron chair, forcing his right leg to cooperate. It’s 02:15. His game is getting weak. He lights the cigarette. The septum cuts the fume as he exhales.

He’s watching the night crowd deep down, eyes dry. He’s all by himself, behind the safety bars of his balcony, locked away in this fucking birdcage.

Grimacing, he unlocks the screen. He re-watches one of Ed’s oldest vids. Slowly blinks.

He starts typing, biting on the cigarette. Deletes it. Starts it again. He’s searching for the perfect emoji, then never uses it. It takes two fucking minutes.

“Whatever,” he whispers, and publishes the comment.

 **xXxThEpEnGuInxXx** 5 minutes ago  
this torn out hearts stuff reminds me off that beheaded hen stuff lol  
Reply

That’s it, take it or leave it. He drops the mobile into his lap and would very much like to continue watching the city and wallow in self-pity if only someone would let him. It takes two drags of the cigarette, and he’s got an answer.

 **R1DDL3R** 1 minute ago  
Oh, you’re referring to Miracle Mike, aren’t you? Indeed, one can clearly see the connection, although Mike was a rooster, not a hen - his name is a teller. (-;  
Furthermore, Mike’s survival had more to do with a “miracle” (or sheer dumb luck, as I like to call it) than with the laws of science. It’s not very common that a beheaded chicken lives on for months, is it? The axe missed the jugular vein and left most of the brain stem intact. As for Mike’s heartbeat and breathing...

…and so on, and so on; it goes on for lines. Oswald’s eyes coss by the time he finishes reading it on the bright screen. It seems impossible to be able to type a whole fucking essay within four minutes, but yeah, Ed had _miraculously_ done it.

He must reply.

 **xXxThEpEnGuInxXx** Right now  
ohh ok : > intriguing. did you know that radioactive chicken heads got their name from him  
Reply

A _ping._ He’s got a private message.

He puts out the cigarette in the set of false teeth he’s using as an ashtray and holds up the phone with both hands.

An hour and a half later they’re deep into discussing favorites. Ed’s a bitch for Lynch and Hitchcock, the _X-files_ episodes are his best childhood memories, he wants to live in the _Twilight Zone_ universe, and his guilty pleasures include _The Outer Limits_ and _Breaking Bad._ Oswald doesn’t watch series, he doesn’t even have Netflix, for crying out loud, but somehow he’s still interested, he just can’t stop reading Ed’s fun facts and fan theories. Ed asks him about his day, and he lies. Ed likes baking, reading, singing, gaming, fishing; he plays the piano and collects vinyls.

 **xXxThEpEnGuInxXx** no offense which is like super rare when it comes to me so better fuckig appreciate it  
**R1DDL3R** (-8  
**xXxThEpEnGuInxXx** the hell you got so much free time  
**xXxThEpEnGuInxXx** ?  
**R1DDL3R** Multitasking.  
**xXxThEpEnGuInxXx** arya multitsking rn?  
**xXxThEpEnGuInxXx** *multitasking  
**xXxThEpEnGuInxXx** *are *you  
**R1DDL3R** Well, I’m studying, but only because I was bored. Also, there’s a documentary on Discovery I’m kind of watching, “10 Ways the World Will End.” Classic.  
**xXxThEpEnGuInxXx** you study when you bored?

Oswald’s back aches, and he’s slightly shivering. _Theoretically_ , he should get the fuck back inside, but sitting here, under the trembling, twinkling stars, he just sorta feels closer to Ed. If that makes any sense.

 **xXxThEpEnGuInxXx** how many tabs y got open?  
**R1DDL3R** Only the one.  
**xXxThEpEnGuInxXx** amateur :p  
**R1DDL3R** I’m just appreciating the company.  
**R1DDL3R** (-;  
**xXxThEpEnGuInxXx** hmmh is that so  
**R1DDL3R** I’m really enjoying our conversation, Oswald.  
**xXxThEpEnGuInxXx** betcha ;)  
**xXxThEpEnGuInxXx** wait... you know my name??  
**R1DDL3R** I know who you are.  
**R1DDL3R** I mean, I looked you up?  
**R1DDL3R** You didn’t look me up?  
**xXxThEpEnGuInxXx** nah  
**xXxThEpEnGuInxXx** why would I do that  
**xXxThEpEnGuInxXx** haha  
**xXxThEpEnGuInxXx** embarassing  
**xXxThEpEnGuInxXx** didn’t mean it like that, we’re cool  
**xXxThEpEnGuInxXx** you here?  
**xXxThEpEnGuInxXx** ed  
**R1DDL3R** So sorry, I forgot to feed the girls. You kept me occupied, haha!  
**xXxThEpEnGuInxXx** ??????  
**R1DDL3R** My snakes, Query and Echo.  
**xXxThEpEnGuInxXx** oookkkk what’s with the animal fetish  
**R1DDL3R** What do you mean? (-8  
**xXxThEpEnGuInxXx** you like animals. a lot.  
**R1DDL3R** I do, but I wouldn’t say I’ve got a fetish. My sexual desires have nothing to do with the poor souls. Are you into it?  
**xXxThEpEnGuInxXx** not the least bit  
**R1DDL3R** That said, I must confess, a certain penguin does get me all hot and bothered!

Oswald was typing, but suddenly, he stops.

 **xXxThEpEnGuInxXx** …………….. … . . . . …  
**R1DDL3R** (((((((;  
**xXxThEpEnGuInxXx** if that was meant to be a joke  
**R1DDL3R** _is typing_ …  
**xXxThEpEnGuInxXx** Nevermind. It’s getting late.  
**xXxThEpEnGuInxXx** I gotta go.  
**xXxThEpEnGuInxXx** Good talk. Bye.  
**R1DDL3R** Gosh, no, nononono, no! I didn’t mean to offend you in any way - I do realise that what I said might have been in poor taste, and I apologise if I was in any way too forward. People often tell me that my communication skills lack finesse.  
**R1DDL3R** Oh.  
**R1DDL3R** Oswald?  
**R1DDL3R** Are you still here?  
**R1DDL3R** Nighty-night!  
**R1DDL3R** (-8

 

**OOTD #25 THE PERFECT LOOK FOR RISING FROM THE DEAD | xXxThEpEnGuInxXx**

He always films his outfit of the day vids outside. There’s an abandoned quadrangle he rather fancies with huge iron gates, walls scattered like broken glass and decorated with spraypaint. The party people always leave some litter to remember them by, empty cans and lipstick-tainted cigarettes. All the flowers are long dead, and the only light is that of the sick sun.

He’s limping towards the camera. He tries to calm the vehement movement of his shoulders, concentration straining his face, nostrils flaring. His lips are pressed to a thin line, with a bold smile trembling at the corner which says _I know I’m hot as hell._

He zooms in on his face. Turning to the right, turning to the light, his sharp profile is illuminated (the earrings: two small silver circles and a fine chain almost touching his jawline). He turns back, hanging his head. He’ll edit this part, playing it backwards, adding some old school television effect.

He laces his fingers and stretches towards the camera, revealing his bony wrists. The ring, made of metal, looking like a skull of a bird, glitters.

He looks back behind his shoulders. Patience. The shirt is plum, with elegant cuffs. The vest is decorated with fading pastel-roses, small minerals and tiny shells. It reminds him of his mother’s apartment, nostalgia and syrupy scents.

He’s pressing his legs together, the left feet pointed. Chin up. And then his fucking phone chimes.

He stops, eyebrows furrowed. The camera is still on when he’s unlocking the screen. He’s got a text from an unknown number. It simply says:

 

 _I may only be given, not taken or bought. The sinner receives me, and the saint hails me. What am I?_  
10:23 ✓✓

Oswald’s staring at the screen, mouth agape. He wobbles to a turned over trashcan and sits down on its mortal remains.

He’s got like ninety-nine problems. First of all, Edward Nygma (it can only be him) somehow took hold of his private number, and it took him less than four days. Oswald cannot decide whether he should be awed, impressed or very damn scared, so he’s… all.

Second, the aforementioned Edward Nygma had the nerve to apologize in a riddle. If it _is_ an apology.

Ed already got the notification that his message was received and read. That’s enough of an answer; he locks the screen, and pockets the phone.

He steps to the camera, and turns it off.

When he gets home, he uploads the record to his laptop. It takes forever. A sudden impulse makes him tweet:

 **Oswald Cobblepot** @xXxThEpEnGuInxXx 1m  
_#sphenisciformes, how about a quick #meetup today at IDK. #robinsonpark? 6PM? raise ur flipper if ur with me_

Twelve people are on board within half an hour.  
Yay. It’s almost like he’s got, you know, a life.

Oswald heads to Midtown Gotham. He’s a bit early, so he invites himself for a Bloody Mary in a ruined pub. Dim neon lights pour on the plastic curtains, and moths flutter around. He’s at his third glass when he realises he should really get going.

He’s driving to the park under the influence, and keeps checking his phone. (Ed didn’t text him again. He doesn’t know why he’s so disappointed. The hell did he expect.)  
The die hard fans are dutifully waiting for him in the park. Most of them are underage with undercuts, smoking cheap cigarettes. They sit down on the soft grass. Mellow mist floats between the twisted trees.

His fans beg him to read them. Oswald proceeds to throw grass at the nearest one, a boy with flowers in his lilac hair.

“Do you think you’re ready for the truth about _that_ jersey, honey? Unless you’re applying to major in pedophilia I suggest you take it off. No, not in front of the children, Jesus!”

There’s a guy with glasses who brought homemade cookies and he’s kind of a cutie with beautiful brown skin, around Oswald’s age, but he can’t be bothered.

They’re all laughing and chatting and bitching and Oswald just can’t get _really_ invested or even slightly interested. He keeps thinking about Ed. He’s wondering what he might be up to.

He finds out within an hour.

A girl in a Kurt Cobain shirt asks him about his leg, very politely, because they’re always so fucking polite when it comes to his disability. Before he’d answer, Oswald takes a drag of his cigarette, and then - well. Suddenly Ed is just _there._

Ed’s taller than he estimated. He’s got a baby blue shirt on and he’s holding onto his satchel for dear life.

First, there’s stunned silence. Then he says:

“Sorry I’m late,” and takes a seat.

Some of the sphenisciformes start to whisper.

Ed is approximately sixty percent legs, which he attempts to fold under himself so he can sit cross-legged. He’s not right next to Oswald, but he is still close. The cigarette burns out. Oswald fumbles for another one, inhales, clears his throat. He’s looking for words to say.

“So you’ve asked me about my leg,” he mumbles, but at the same time, someone else says:

“You’re the Riddler, right?”

Oswald could strangle her in a spoonful of water. The girl doesn’t notice his murderous gaze, but Ed must have, because he chuckles. Oswald heard this soft laughter many times, but IRL, the voice makes him feel a tickle slowly traveling up his stomach.

“Well yes,” Ed answers. “I happen to be me.”

He’s still watching Oswald when he turns to the girl, first his torso, then his head, and finally, his glance. Oswald sighs. He’s dizzy.

The girl doesn’t stop.

“So you’re like, a fan?”

“By all means.”

He’s talking fast, in a singsong, slightly nasal voice, which sounds a bit deeper and softer without the microphone.

Everyone’s at a loss for words, sharing confused glances. Oswald is just… done. He’s smoking in silence, trying to suppress a stubborn smile.

Ed’s under attack.

“You excited for the next vid?”

“Which one’s your favorite?”

“Are you subscribed?”

“Who’d you like to see burn?”

“Do you guys know each other?”

Oswald pops his tongue. His fans shut up. He throws away the cigarette and leans back.

“Let him catch his breath. You go on like this, poor Ed’s gonna run away like a chicken with its head cut off.”

“Like Mike,” Ed mutters, his gaze back on Oswald. It’s like he just can’t get enough. Overwhelmed, Oswald says:

“Like Mike.” His tongue is dry. They both snicker.

No one else understands the reference. Thanking god for their bewilderment Oswald glances at his nonexistent watch, and stands up. He can feel it under his skin that Ed’s still watching him.

“All right then. Gotta go, folks. Thanks for coming, catch you later.”

“Who’s staying for a drink?” one of them asks - he looks like the leader of an underground biker gang; most of them raise their hands, including Ed. Oswald’s smile is wide and honest. They all wave him goodbye.

“We’ll drink to your health!”

“Take care!”

“Moment you're gone, we’ll burn you like nobody’s business!”

Oswald turns on his heels and gives them the finger in a loving gesture. Ed is still observing him, head cocked, and Oswald thinks, _you coward, you fucking coward,_ but he’s not sure which one of them he means.

 

**RECORDED FILE 157**

Oswald fled to the roof of a parking structure. His hands still smell of the rust of the fire escape and his right leg is killing him. Lukewarm oil puddles surround him, their shiny surfaces reflecting the last purple rays of the setting sun. The skyscrapers are ablaze.

He’s still panting. He’s recording himself, trying to be objective about his own reflection, eyes wide and cheeks flushed. He sees a flash in his eyes, he sees how his teeth sink into his chapped bottom lip, and before he knows it, he’s closed the camera app and called Ed.

The phone feels hot and heavy.

“Hel-lo?” Ed picks up, speech slightly slurred. Oswald searches his pockets for a cigarette.

“Where are you?”

Ed chuckles.

“Still in the park. Havin’ fun.”

“I’m at Monolith Square, top of that oversized parking structure. Get your ass over here.” Oswald pauses, putting the cigarette between his lips. He doesn’t light it. “Bring booze,” he adds, and ends the call.

And waits.

He’s waiting, dangling his legs as he’s lying on his stomach. His boots hit the ground and the hard concrete scratches the shiny leather. He tsks. The cigarette is still not lit.

He gets rid of his thin leather jacket, suddenly too hot. He’s just staring at it. He feels helpless, out of place, and it makes him angry.

He grabs his transparent backpack, pulls out a bottle of watery rosé, squeezes the jacket in. He found the wine in an alleyway on the way here. It _looks_ more or less sanitary, and he desperately needs a drink. Choking, he drinks down what’s left at the bottom.

Once he’s finished, he touches his lips, keeping his fingertips there. He resists biting his nails. The gesture is comforting.

It’s only been ten minutes. Ed needs about half an hour to find him.

He closes his eyes, the aftertaste of the wine sour at the tip of his tongue.

* * *

“Hey.”

_Finafuckinglly._

Ed’s standing above him, wide shoulders blocking the hazy streetlights. He’s holding cans of root beer.

Fucking root beer.

“You call that booze?”

“Oh?” Ed looks down, as if he just noticed what is he carrying. “Well, as a matter of fact, they _are_ alcoholic, and rather refreshing, and it’s such a frowzy evening, isn’t it, so I was thinking…”

“Next time, don’t think, just reach for the hard liquor, please,” Oswald sighs. He’s lying on his back, knocking his knees together. The smoky sky is empty. The low lights of the city cling to the heavy clouds.

“Alrighty. Next time.” Ed’s enthusiasm doesn’t falter. He crouches down, and puts the cans to the ground in an even line. “Sprecher or Rowdy?”

“Give me death.”

Ed’s eyelids stir.

“I can’t help with that.”

Oswald reluctantly raises his head up. Frowning, he surveys the line. He’s still clutching the rosé’s neck.

”Sprecher, please and thank you.”

Ed’s teeth flash. Oswald maintains eye contact as he reaches for the wet can. Their fingers brush; it could’ve been taken for an accident, but Ed is far too quick to withdraw his hand, as if he was found out.

Ed sits down, legs spread, peering at Oswald. He leans back on his elbows and gulps down the root beer. It’s too cold and bubbly. Ed sips on it carefully, as if he was drinking coffee.

Oswald can feel the warmth of the concrete pulling him down, his stomach sinks, and there’s that tingling feeling slowly spreading to his limbs. He’s telling himself it’s merely because of the chilly weather.

Once he’s finished, he pops his tongue, satisfied, and Ed beams at him.

“ _Anyway,_ ” he says, as if they were talking in the last couple of minutes, “I’m sorry for showing up at the meetup. I know you weren’t expecting me.”

“Mm.” Oswald pouts, putting away the empty can. He lies down, staring at the smoky skies, and listens to Ed. His voice is filling him, quenching a thirst he never knew he had.

“And I’m sorry for being late.”

“It’s okay.”

“I had a class. Immunology. Had to wait it out.”

“It’s okay,” Oswald repeats, sneaking a peek at him. Ed is flushed.

“Are you still angry with me?”

Oswald shrugs, and crosses his arms. He rolls over so he can look at Ed from a more comfortable angle.

The air smells of sweet alcohol, soap and fresh cotton. Ed’s scent is clean and comforting and Oswald is just content in his presence, content even with the awkward pauses of their conversation. And it terrifies him.

“Entertain me,” he says, resting his head on his arms. He knows he’s lying like a Baroque whore. Ed cocks his head and grimaces, the sudden movement clearly making him dizzy.

“Should I tell a joke?”

“We’re youtubers,” Oswald says. “It’s what we do. We entertain. So give me your best shot and impress me.”

“I already did,” Ed states. His voice is dry. His glasses reflect the lights. “Listen,” he says, adjusting the rim. “I know my audience laughs at me, and not with me, and I don’t care. I know my value. My content is illuminating and thought-provoking. So I lack certain editing skills; so what? I never said I was good at _vidding_ , but I’m _good._ I’ve got the knowledge, I’ve got the personality, I’ve got the looks, I’ve got humour. If they don’t see it, it’s their loss.” He chuckles. “But you’re different, aren’t you? You read people. You understand what drives them. You’re intelligent. So _you_ were impressed, because greatness recognizes greatness, and we’re the best.”

Oswald grins.

“Bing-bing-bing,” he sings, and stands. Ed seems surprised as Oswald comes closer. His crotch is only some inches away from Ed’s face, but the guy doesn’t click. “It’s not your strongsuit,” Oswald sighs, “is it?”

Ed blinks. Oswald steps back, pants too tight and uncomfortable.

“Whatever. It’s getting late, grab your shit and come with me.”

He leads the way, adjusting himself, and Ed’s still not getting the hint.

 

 

They’re walking the misty streets. The concrete is soaked in glow, like the surface of a glistening sea. Ed follows his uneven steps as a discipline walking behind his master, between them, an afterthought of distance.

Oswald has no idea where they’re heading, where the whole thing’s heading, he just soldiers on, feet dull with pain and heart bursting with expectations.

“Hold on.”

Oswald looks back. Ed’s eyeing a store on the other side, its neon signs reflected on his glasses.

“Wha’?”

“I’m out of tobacco.” Ed looks down at him. “Plus, I want you to have fun.”

Oswald sucks in his lips.

“I’m ha--… Aren’t you, like, broke?”

“I am,” Ed says, eyebrows arched. His smile says it all. He looks around and crosses the street, half jogging, hands in his pockets. Oswald snickers, head back, like he was howling up the moon.

 

Ed’s sneaking down the aisles, almost invisible. A darkwave melody booms from the speakers; Oswald’s memorising the lyrics so he can look it up later and use it in a video. Following Ed’s footsteps, he’s looking for cameras. He’s limping with an awed expression fixed on his face; his legs are no longer hurting him. He follows the lines of the shelves with careful fingers, stealing a glance at Ed’s shoulders. He licks his lips.

The store stocks alcohol like nobody’s business. At least it’s hidden in the back behind plastic curtains. A handful of drunk students stand around, arguing about money in slurred words. Ed winks at Oswald, and heads towards them.

Oswald stops, observing the scene. He crosses his arms, leaning to a pile of boxes. Ed looks back, eyes glinting in excitement. He grins. Oswald struggles not to return it.

It happens all of a sudden. He can’t even see Ed’s hands move, but a bottle of brandy falls and crashes to the ground with a loud splash. Ed spins, his left arm hidden behind his back. The students hiss.

“Shit!”

“What was it?”

“Stu, for fuck’s sake!”

“It _wasn’t_ me!”

The cashier bellows from the other side of the store:

“Fucking kids!”

He comes a-running, clutching a baseball bat.

Ed steps to Oswald, and their arms brush.

“I think we should get going,” he whispers, leaning in.

Oswald shivers.

 

They stop by the counter. Ed hands the stolen bottle to Oswald and drums on the desk, tilting his head back. He cannot hear the cashier coming, as he’s still shouting with the kids.

He hops on the desk, spins, and grabs the tobacco stocked with the cigarettes. He bites on the pack and jumps to the ground, gracefully. He nods to Oswald, mumbling something.

He cannot take it any longer. He bursts out laughing, and Ed joins in with a high-pitched giggle. They make it to the exit, Oswald on the verge of tears. Out of breath, he holds the door for Ed.

Ed leaves behind some evidence, pulling out his immunology notes and scattering the scribbled papers to the ground like confetti. It’s reckless and entirely unnecessary, but makes a hell of an exit, so Oswald lets him.

 

Oswald taps the camera app on his phone and wishes for a selfie stick. He tilts the angle so Ed’s in the frame. He’s rolling a cigarette, long fingers playing with the filter. He looks up and licks the paper.

The camera sways off for a moment; there’s a click, there’s an orange flash. Flame flickers. Ed is back, cigarette between his lips, smiling. He leans closer, chin almost touching Oswald’s shoulders as he blows smoke to the screen.

Oswald chukles. Cut.

 

They’re at a subway station. Ed’s about fifteen feet away from him, leaning on a metal column. The very last train closes its doors with a loud hiss, the leading wind blowing Ed’s hair. Lights flicker and noise fills the vast place. Everything seems larger than life, run-down and radiant.

Ed slides down, shoulders still touching the column.

Oswald wobbles closer with echoing steps.

 

Only their voices can be heard, the screen’s empty like starless space.

“...much the same as Dengue-fever.”

“Uhum.”

“Are you cold?”

“Nope.”

“You shivered.”

“I’m good.”

“I’ve got a jacket in my bag. Let me...”

Movement. Rustle. Faint footsteps. Silence breathed into the darkness. Ed whispers:

“Better?”

“Mmm, yeah. Hey, is this still on?”

A crackle.

 

Oswald leans to Ed’s shoulders. There’s the smell of cold stones and rust and Ed’s tobacco vanille. Ed strains, then inches closer, resting his chin on the top of Oswald’s head. His neck is so close now, adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows. Oswald pictures himself strangling him. His throat would be all purple and green and pretty.

 

“Now what?”

Ed opens his eyes, staring into the dark tunnel. The tracks clang. There’s silence.

“Hmh?”

“Your last train is long gone. Now what?”

“Ah, I never use it anyway.”

Oswald raises his head from Ed’s shoulder.

“Didn’t we come here so you can go home?”

“I thought we came here because _you_ need to get home by train.”

“I _am_ parked in that parking structure, y’know.”

“ _I’m_ parked near the park.”

“We could always catch a taxi to drive us there.”

“Yeah.”

None of them move.

“I’d offer you a ride,” Ed says, gesticulating with his fingers, “like I could go and get my car and get you home, but I’d get us killed, because I had drinks to drink and I’m getting tired.”

Oswald huffs, smiling, and fumbles for a cigarette. Ed nods to himself.

“Taxi it is, then. Sorry I can’t be your escorting gentleman.”

“I don’t feel like heading home anyways.”

The smoke obscures Ed’s face.

“So what’s your plan?”

Oswald pats the cold, hard grounds half-heartedly. Ed squints.

“You want to sleep here?”

“Yeah.”

“...May I join you?”

Oswald slowly lets the smoke out. He casts down his eyes, head lolling back. He licks his teeth, mouth open.

He mumbles:

“If you want to.”

Then he grabs Ed neck with twitching fingers, pulls him down, and presses their lips together.

His nails follow the lines of a blue vein, leaving behind tiny little scratches. He wraps his trembling legs around Ed’s waist. Ed holds him.

Their kiss deepens. It’s hot and open-mouthed and wet. Ed mimics Oswald’s movements with discreet eagerness. He’s not entirely sure what to do with his tongue, so Oswald shows him, licking into his mouth. Ed doesn’t tilt his head, so their foreheads bump and Oswald’s nose hits his glasses. Ed grins, and Oswald takes revenge by biting his lips. He lazily pulls away, looking up. Ed stares down at him, glasses smeary, and he’s softly panting. Oswald lets go of his lips, and Ed’s head rolls back, his face awed.

Oswald is looking into his eyes as he grabs his shoulders for balance. He nestles into his lap. Ed’s fingers are caressing his sharp hips in slow, steady circles.

Oswald fists Ed’s shirt, mouth dry. His lips are tingling with the taste of him.

“You like me?” Ed asks, all too loud and sudden. Oswald twitches.

“For fuck’s sake, Ed,” he breathes, trying to hold back laughter.

”Do you?” Ed demands, leaning back to the column. Oswald is still straddling him.

“Fuck yeah. I do. Yes. Very much, in fact.” He bumps their foreheads. “Okay?”

Ed’s eyes soften, color a mellow brown.

“Okey-dokey,” he grins, and swiftly kisses the top of Oswald’s nose. He pulls him closer. “It’s settled then,” he concludes, closing his eyes. Oswald buries his face into Ed’s neck with a crooked smile.

The neon lights twinkle behind his eyelids. He lets the moment wash him over. Ed is warm and he smells really nice and he’s caressing him, his side, his back, his hips. They’re cuddling in a fucking metro station and it should be ridiculous. He just listens to Ed breathing, each breath becoming more and more even, and he’s lulled by the rise and fall of his chest. He’s covered in Ed’s jacket and he doesn’t want to leave, ever.

They’re drifting off to sleep in the underbellies of Gotham.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading~
> 
> Neither of us is a native speaker; please feel free to correct us at any time. The original version of the fic was written in Hungarian and we decided to translate our work into English so it can meet an international audience ɾ⚈▿⚈ɹ
> 
> Our lovely beta was Julie ( http://youwerethebestdistraction.tumblr.com/ )
> 
> Find us on tumblr: captaincuppy.tumblr.com // longstoryshortikilledhim.tumblr.com


	2. Chapter 2

First the noises rush in, and then comes the warmth of flesh and the clean smell of detergent. Oswald’s throat is hoarse and his right ankle aches with a dull pain. He can feel Ed soothing his long, boney fingers through his hair.

He doesn’t move. He doesn’t dare.

The roar of the subway station is getting deafening. The lights are harsh even behind his closed eyelids. He pretends to be asleep.

He needs to get away. He’s still sitting in Ed’s lap, he’s still holding onto him, gripping his shirt, and yet his mind is just not there. It’s blank.

Great. He’s panicking.

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” Ed mumbles. Oswald opens his mouth to answer. _Good morning_ , he wants to say. That’s how his mother raised him, _say good morning, Oswald, say it, say it, SAY IT._

Nothing comes out. He casts his eyes downward. Ed’s palm is on his nape now, warm and comforting but still in vain. Oswald straightens.

_Say: “good morning, Ed.” Ask him: “did you sleep well?” Crack a smile. Look up._

Well. Fuck it.

He tries to get on his feet. Ed offers his help, but Oswald waves him off and grabs the metal column for balance. He takes off Ed’s jacket, folds it, slowly, methodically, gives it back to him, all in silence, and gets his backpack.  Ed says something, in that singsong voice of his, but Oswald can’t hear it.  His heart is racing and his breath is hollow.

He adjusts the straps, turns his back to Ed, and hobbles off.

“Oswald, what’s the matter?”

He doesn’t look back. He can hear Ed coming after him with quick, clumsy steps. He starts to limp faster. Shit, he must look pathetic. It only takes about two, three feet, and Ed’s stopping.

“Oswald?” he calls after him. He doesn’t sound angry or even disappointed, just utterly confused.

Oswald shakes his head, still not looking back. He lets the sea of people wash him away. He gets to the escalator and grips the dirty rubber rail. His knuckles whiten.  

By the time he gets to the surface, he’s calm, and it’s such a terrible calmness.

He lost Ed.

 

**The (Semi-Drunk) Blindfolded Makeup Challenge [QueenBee &  xXxThEpEnGuInxXx]**

 

He’s aimlessly walking the streets. There’s no point of turning back and soon he realizes that there’s no point getting back to his car either. He doesn’t want to go home.

He stops and a passerby bumps into him, cursing. He doesn’t give notice. He’s standing in an alleyway stinking of cold, the taste of alcohol still coating his tongue. His eyes are wet.

He sniffs, adjusting his septum with the back of his hand. He waddles on. He has to.

The noise of the subway station still fills his head, a persistent, pulsing ring, wailing like a siren.

He knows a place where he can go whenever he feels like shit.

* * *

Oswald doesn’t even need to knock. He slams the door to make his presence known, but otherwise, Barbara’s place feels like home. It’s his plan B, his sanctuary.   

He can hear voices from the bright living room. He walks towards them, a sharp, relieved laugh escaping him.

He’s only noticed once he dives into the maroon couch, face first. Barbara sits by his feet, a joint in hand. The sweet and spicy smell of marijuana fills the penthouse. Barbara says in a smoky voice:

“Ivy? Ivy, pass me the cereal, please.”

There’s the cracking of leather and the soft rustle of hair. Barbara tosses the box to Oswald, hitting him in the ribs.

“Eat.”

Oswald wants to die.

“No thanks.”

“It’s sugar-free."

“Eh.”

“Your loss.” Barbara clears her throat, hugging her knees closer. She’s wearing a short skirt which, sitting like this, completely fails to cover her red lace thong. None of them care.  

She lets some thick smoke curl out of her lips and offers the joint to Oswald, poking him with her big toe.

“Want some?”

“Geh.”

Barbara shrugs. She smokes on, her gaze fixed on the corner of the coffee table. Soon, silence veils the room, and Oswald lets himself ease into it.

They both went to Anders Prep and somehow, they survived high school together. For a short while, Oswald was under the impression that Barbara was his friend, but later he realized that Barbara doesn’t have buddies and besties - she has allegiances.

Barbara’s parents spent millions of dollars to get rid of their daughter. She had a penthouse by the time she was seventeen, and Oswald used to envy her.

Time is slipping away from Oswald. When he can’t breathe any longer, he turns his head so he can suffocate in a different pillow. It’s beige and boring. On the verge of his consciousness, he senses the sound of bare feet tapping the floor, then he hears Renee’s voice:

“Bee, have you seen my stockings?”

She’s wearing boxer briefs and a Gotham Police Academy shirt, hair pulled back in a loose ponytail. She’s hugging Barbara from behind and kisses her mouth. Oswald scoffs. Renee raises her eyebrows at him.

“What’s wrong with him?”

Barbara swallows the smoke and lets her head roll back to Renee’s breasts. Closing her eyes, she says:

“He let himself in.”

“And?”

“Dunno. He’s agonizing. Hey O, why are you agonizing?”

Oswald dramatically sighs into the sea of pillows.

“My tiny heart is broken.”

Renee rolls her eyes, but doesn’t say anything. Leaning to Barbara she reaches for the box of cookies on the coffee table.

“Stockings?”

“You kicked them under the bed.”

“I did!” She laughs, and kisses Barbara goodbye. “I’ll be home early,” she promises, biting her lower lip. She raises her voice, still looking at Barbara: “Cobblepot, we’re gonna need that couch. Don’t cry too much, it’ll get all soggy.”

“Fuuuck yooouu,” Oswald moans, and Renee goes back to the bedroom, muttering boo-hoo.

“Your tiny heart is broken?” Barbara asks, following her girlfriend with her eyes. “Are you kidding?”

“No, I uh. I had something with this really cute guy and I fucked it up. So yeah. There’s that.”

Oswald searches his pockets for his phone. He manages to unlock the screen on the third try. He checks his messages, even his log. Nothing. He slams the phone to his forehead.

Barbara’s observing him with arched eyebrows and a slightly open mouth for a while, then she asks in a ridiculously deep voice:

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Nah. Yeah. Uhh. Neither. It’s ah, umm, long story.”  

Ivy, so far lingering by the bonsai trees, bolts up and leaves. No one asks her where she’s heading. She’ll come back, they all do. Barbara likes to surround herself with people so she won’t be alone with whatever’s inside her head. She won’t let them leave, not for long.

Renee’s heels are clicking in the bedroom. Barbara stretches herself out on the couch, legs creeping up Oswald’s taut shoulders. She shakes him with them.

“Just text him already.”

Oswald shakes his head.

“Coward,” Barbara mouths. “Oswald Cobblepot is afraid to text someone. Poor little baby. What are you, eight? If you fuck shit up, own it up.”

“You’re one to talk.”

Barbara kicks him.

“Screw you. What’s his name anyway?”

Oswald sniffs.

“Ed.”

“So, he’s angry with you, yeah?” Barbara asks, scrounging his phone.

“I guess.”

“Have you tried jerking him off? That always makes boys happy.”

“Thank you, Barbs, extremely helpful. May thy wisdom shine upon the less fortunate.”

“Amen.” Barbara flashes a professional smile. “Let’s start with something simple.”

 

 **Barbara Kean** @QueenBee 5 m  
@xXxThEpEnGuInxXx crashed on my couch. :D #Queenguin is back bitchez.

View photo

 

“Relax. Delete it back, one “i” is more than sufficient to say hi. No, God, don’t waddup him. Write something, uhh…” Barbara squints. “Something boyfriendly.” 

“Should I ask him whether he got home safe?”

“Now we’re talking. Do that, that’s nice. And add an emoji. No, not the Home Alone emoji, that’s super lame. Blushing face.”

“But that’s like-”

“Nah, it’s not too much. It isn’t. Okay, let’s apologize. Sorry won’t cut it, c’mon. You need something along the lines of forgive-me-for-I-have-sinned.”

“Aaand done.”

“Now we wait.”

They wait about two seconds. Oswald starts tapping the case, his face clouded.

“He’s seen it.”

“What? Already?” Barbara leans closer, honey hair brushing Oswald’s shoulders. “Is he typing?”

“Not yet.”

“How about now?”

“Nope.”

“How about n-”

“He isn-- yeah.”

It takes ages for Ed to reply. He pauses again and again, deletes back what he wrote and starts afresh. Oswald is staring at the ellipsis jumping up and down on his screen with flared nostrils.

Barbara pokes him.

“Don’t forget to breathe.”

The phone chimes, a small, joyful sound. Oswald gnashes his teeth.

 

_Currently I’m somewhat occupied._

9:39 ✓✓

 

“Currently I’m somewhat occupied!? Currently. Occupied. Somewhat. I-- what the fuck? Is he fucking with me?” He snickers. “He’s fucking with me. 

“Isn’t that good news?” Renee’s back, elegant but unpolished, and reads the text from behind Oswald’s shoulders, the leather cracking under her arms as she bends down. Barbara gives her the side-eye.

“Tell him it’s okay and that you’ll catch him later,” she says. “Y’know, pretend you cannot be bothered.

 

 _We’ll see, Oswald. I’ve got things to attend to. Bye._  
9:41 ✓✓  
  


“Whoa.” Renee straightens and pats Oswald’s shoulders. “That’s harsh. I’m sorry. Bee, good luck cheering him up.” 

“Just… go.”

 

Around noon Barbara says:

“If you’re going to stay then we should at least make a collab or something.” 

“Under one condition: we gotta get wasted.”

In the past few hours, Oswald managed to turn on his back and pull up his favorite leg. Barbara passes him, patting his knee, and grins:

“Who do you think I am?”

She places a bottle of vodka on his stomach. Oswald reaches for it, but Barbara slaps his hands away.

“Eat something first, for heaven’s sake.”

 

They settle for a blindfolded makeup challenge. It’s Oswald’s turn to make Barbara beautiful without seeing anything. Barbara is so high she cannot shut up, so Oswald ends up putting lipstick on her teeth, chin and, in a surprising twist, shoulders.

Barbara is busy discussing the abstract concept of tableware when Selina steps in. Immediately, she starts hissing at Oswald, who jumps and tears off the blindfold. Selina disappears behind the nearest door, and the mood she leaves behind is awkward and empty.

“The party’s over,” Barbara observes. “Sorry, she can be quite mean. She’ll get to like you, eventually.”

Oswald just shrugs. He peeks at his phone, the screen still black and flat. He grabs it, and tuning out Barbara’s rambling, he opens his YouTube profile.

Ed told the sphenisciformes at the meetup that he was a fan, the fucking liar. Oswald searches his subscribers, hundreds and thousands and hundred-thousands, and he’s certain that Ed won’t be among them.  

Then he’s staring at the green question mark icon. The R1DDL3R was his third subscriber. _He’s in the first fucking three._ He’s been following the channel for seven years. He’d seen the embarrassing vlogs of a boring, bitter rebel with his superiority-complex, the sweet seventeens in hell, and Ed had decided that he’s worthy of attention and affection.  

Because, Oswald realizes, Ed doesn’t give two shits about the content, he couldn’t care less about the hype, and he’s not interested in the internet personality. He’s here for him. He _really_ likes him.

Oswald presses his lips together. Barbara watches him for a while, then looks into the camera.

The camera is always on in Barbara’s penthouse. She edits hours and hours of material for a ten minute video. Now, she asks:

“Do you want me to turn it off?”

 

Oswald’s on the balcony. There’s smoke in his lungs and cuss in his throat; he swallows it all down. The realization that he fucked up big time pours on him like mist.

The cigarette burns off. Oswald isn’t smoking it. The ash falls on the rail of its own accord.

Barbara joins him in her party dress, a blouse with sparkly collars and a lacey short. Her red sole high heels clicks closer, then she twirls. Oswald regards her with an apathetic expression,  and marks in a dull voice:

“Mother could use you as a curtain. It’s too much. Lose the shorts.”

“Hopefully, I will,” Barbara winks, the smile quickly melting away from her lips. She’s searching for the right words, and Oswald can’t stand looking at her.  “Listen… I know I’m the last person to give anyone relationship advice-”

“Rrright, no. You and Montoya are like a fucking tampon commercial.”

“Maybe. Seemingly.” Barbara’s words turn to vinegar. “She shouldn’t be cheating on me, though.”

Oswald looks at her, finally, but she just shakes her head.

“There’s this other girl… Doesn’t matter. She, uh. She’s got red hair.” She shrugs, wincing. “She always had a thing for redheads.  Not my point. Point is, I’ve never seen anyone have such an effect on you, so I guess you shouldn’t give up on him. It’s gonna be fine, you should just give it a try, or ten. You know. Men.”

“Yeah.” Oswald tosses away the stump and sniffs. He heads back, but Barbara’s in his way. “You want me to hug you or what?”

“No way.” She tilts her head. “You wanna hug?”

“Hell no.”

Barbara beams, and hands him a tiny pack of weed.

“Here. One gram of love for the road. Will help you survive the night.”

Oswald doesn’t say thanks. He knows nothing’s for free.

He follows Barbara to the living room and puts on his backpack. He checks his phone. Still no reply. Ed must be currently somewhat occupied.

He stops by the mirror in the hall to ruffle his hair and put on sunglasses. There. He looks like nothing’s happened.

 

**……………………………… |  xXxThEpEnGuInxXx**

 

Oswald’s facing the camera from behind a veil of smoke, eyes dry and mouth chapped. Around his eyes, the smudged makeup of a too long afternoon. His hair is wet. He’s wearing a Hanni El Khatib tank top, one strap burned.

The noise of traffic is faint and far away. Oswald’s breathing in and out, gaze unfocused.

He pops his tongue. The sound is soft now.  

“So, I made a big ass mistake,” he says. He reaches out, adjusting the equipment off-screen. “You already know that. I just wanted to say…” He sniffs. “I’m sorry. I, uhm. Listen, tomorrow you can find me there, y’know, where it all started? It was just the two of us and you brought root beer. We could see the sky from there and you told me about yourself. I, erhm, so it’d be nice to do that again, it was still okay then so we could like, start again. So I’ll be there, and if you won’t come then that’s okay, you won’t be hearing from me anymore, I promise.” He sighs. “Okay. Okay.”

That’s the whole video. The comment section is filled with speculations; they’re looking for a code, a prank, a parody. For the first time in his life, he’s at least fifty percent honest, and no one believes him.

 

 **Oswald Cobblepot** @xXxThEpEnGuInxXx 1m

: (

 

The next day, a storm is on its way. Oswald’s planning on waiting a quarter, twenty minutes tops, then he’s out of here. He’s telling himself he only came to get closure.

He knows that Ed won’t come. First of all, he didn’t specify when they should meet exactly, which is probably not helping. Oswald has some hazy recollection of when Ed did arrive the last time, and if Ed’s even remotely interested then he should already be waiting here for a second chance, for propitiation.

Oswald watches the purple stormclouds rolling in, cracking and thundering. The air feels steamy and wet. The wind is stinging.

His phone is silent.

Ed didn’t message him in any way. He’s read all the fucking comments, and nothing. He taps his phone, it lights up and darkens again, pulsing indifferently. He’s even read the thread to Barbara’s vids. All those minutes he’ll never get back.

So he’s on the top of the parking structure and watches a family of four run to their car, shrieking. They get in. They leave. He’s smoking, one cigarette, then the next, throat sour and raw. There’s a silly song stuck in his head, it starts over and over again. He leans on the nearest lamp post, its white light cold and thick.

He’s standing there as it starts raining.

At first, he doesn’t even notice. He’s staring at the dark dots on the pavement becoming patches, and before he knows it, the concrete is soaking wet. There’s a flash of lightning and a low rumbling. No way he’ll cover his head with his jacket. It’s a designer piece. He lets his hair get ruined; he worked on it with high hopes, true, but he finds it fitting, letting all his effort go to waste.  

He drops the cigarette and stomps on it. Again, it’s symbolic, he’s practically kicking it with his boots. His fists are deep in his pockets. His teeth chatter. Everything has a dank smell.

Chest heaving, he straightens his back. He turns on his heels, and hanging his head, hobbles off.

He hears a giggle, then quick steps. He turns back, and Ed is jogging towards him through the rain, umbrella in hand. He’s got a parka on and his smile shines like the sun. He shouts:

“Hey-hey, wait for me!”

He does. Oh, he does. When Ed gets near him, still grinning, he shoves him away, so forcefully that Ed almost stumbles.

“Fuck yourself!” Oswald yells. “How long have you been hiding here? Fuck off!” He snatches the umbrella from Ed and turns his back to him. Shoulders raised, he begins to shuffle. He does it very, very slowly.

“I was just curious,” Ed smirks. Two steps, and he’s right next to Oswald again. He gets the umbrella back and raises it above them. Oswald limps on about three feet then he halts. He turns to Ed, chin raised.

“Fuck yourself,” he whispers. Ed cackles, and leans in for a kiss. Oswald turns away, but Ed doesn’t mind, pressing his lips to his throat. He bites into it. Oswald grabs his hair, pulling him closer; Ed’s teeth sink further in. Oswald shivers and tugs at a stray lock to let him know he should back off.  

“Whatever happened with ignoring me?  Of not wanting to see me ever again?”

Ed pulls back a bit. He bends his back so they’re face to face, the tips of their noses touching. Oswald can feel his hot breath on his mouth, sweet and tempting.

The rain is patt-patt-pattering.

“I’ve never said anything like that,” Ed says, voice husky.

“But you made me feel ignored, dumbass,” Oswald snaps.

“Sorry, the storm is too loud, can’t hear you.”

“Fuck. You.” Oswald limps away, into the rain. He points to the roof’s edge. “You should thank me for not pushing you off, because hell, I’ve got half the mind to do so. You won’t be playing games with me, understood?”

“Come back, please,” Ed asks him, and Oswald doesn’t know why he’s obeying. Arms crossed, he steps back under the umbrella. He thinks Ed’s gonna hug him, but it’s not happening. Ed’s smile is faded, and his gaze is all too serious behind the smudgy glasses.

“It really hurt me when you left me at that station, Oswald.”

“I’ve apologized, and you didn’t give a rat’s ass!” Oswald hits his own chest. “You can’t just brush me off, and you can’t toy with me, I’ve been waiting for you for half an hour…”

“Twenty-three minutes.”

Oswald would punch him in the face, but Ed’s too tall. As he leans in, their whole bodies  press against each other.

“It can’t go on like this,” Oswald hisses. “You can’t do this to me.”

“So you want it to go on?” Ed asks, and he’s in earnest, Oswald can tell, but he’s still too cheerful, which makes him angry. He blinks, and looks away.

Thunder rumbles.

There’s no answer.

“You weren’t joking about being my boyfriend?” Ed asks. Oswald shrugs.

“I wasn’t,” he says, voice dry. “Come on, let’s go. You’re practically a walking and talking lightning rod. Unnecessarily tall.” He wipes his nose on his sleeve.

“We’ll figure it out,” Ed says. “We’ll make it work.”

“I don’t want you fucking testing me, and… Do you have any idea… I panicked, okay, that was it, it’s not… Fuck. Fuck you.”

“It hurt.”

It takes Oswald a while to realize Ed means both of them. When he finally looks at Ed, he’s smiling again.

“C’mhere.”

“I’m here, but we should really get going.”

“Come closer.” Ed raises Oswald’s chin with careful fingertips. Oswald casts his eyes down, frowning. He can feel Ed watching him. He doesn’t pull away. “Would it be okay if I kissed you?”

“I guess so.”

“Do you want me to?”

“Maybe. Yeah."

Ed kisses him.

The rain is thrumming and drumming. Oswald’s standing without moving, letting Ed taste him, savour him, drop by drop. Oswald opens his mouth then, and the kiss deepens, teeth still chattering. Oswald stands on tiptoes and forgets himself into the warmth of Ed’s mouth.  

He can feel himself becoming one with the storm, thundering and falling free like the rain. As the heavy drops hit Ed’s parka he’s following their path with his nails, sinking his fingers into Ed’s hips so he can pull him closer.

He’s breathing through his nose, each breath more rapid, then he moans into the kiss. Ed can only hug him with one hand, the other holding the umbrella above their heads, but still, it’s crushing and it’s fantastic. Oswald presses a kiss to his chin and following a fancy licks the long line of his neck, only the tip of his tongue pressed to the skin. Ed sighs, voice glottal, and Oswald presses his palm to Ed’s shivering abdomen.

They look into each other’s eyes, panting into each other’s lips.

“I still hate you a bit,” Oswald states, hand flat on Ed’s stomach. The tips of his fingers are idly playing with the buckle of his belt. “You gotta respect me.”

Ed squints.

“I do respect you.”

“Then you shouldn’t do anything to upset me.”

“I won’t, I really won’t.”

“Take me home.”

“My place?”

“Mine. You’re coming with me.”

Ed gulps.

“Okay. I am.”

Oswald pulls away his hand. As if by accident, the back of his hand briefly touches Ed’s crotch. Oswald grins: he’s rock hard. With a crooked grin, he turns his back to Ed. He starts walking away, and after a thunderstuck pause, Ed’s following him.

 

 **Oswald Cobblepot** — was here: Monolith Square subway station

should’ve come by car fucking train can smell if you’re in a hurry and we’ve got a SITUATION here if you know what I meannn :p #GottaGetThisBoyIntoMyPants

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The train’s floor is muddy and slippery, and most of the seats are occupied by soaked citizens. Oswald is following Ed, who strides the narrow world like a Colossus. People give him way. He indicates an available seat to Oswald, who scoffs and pushes him into it. Before Ed could open his mouth to protest, he sits into his lap, thighs spread. Their foreheads touch, and Oswald pulls him closer by hugging his shoulder. Ed stares up at him, mouth agape. Oswald is finally taller than him.

“Comfortable?” Oswald asks. The noise suppresses his voice, but Ed’s reading his lips, pupils dilated. His eyes appear black. Oswald shuffles in his lap as if he was trying to find a better position, and flashes a shit-eating grin as Ed whimpers. He leans into his ears. A raindrop falls from his bottom lip to Ed’s  neck as he whispers:

“Hold on.”

Ed looks like he’s about to answer, but he can’t. He presses his lips together. He hunches, just a bit, holding on to Oswald’s jacket.

“It’s a nine station journey,” Oswald informs him. Ed shakes his head, mumbling, his wet hair sticking to his glasses. Oswald runs his fingers through the locks and pushes them back.

“You’re a menace,” Ed manages.

“Mmm.” He leans closer, lips almost caressing Ed’s ears. He’s fucking blushing.

“Oswald…”

“Mmgh?”

“ _Hahhh_.”

Ed grabs Oswald by the collar and pulls him away, just a bit. It’s the distance of a could-be-kiss, and Ed’s heaving. His jawline trembles, and he’s looking at Oswald with blazing eyes.

Oswald is observing him, expression blank, mouth open. Ed doesn’t let go. Oswald bites his lip, hiding a grin.

“So you’re playing dirty.”

  
  


Oswald’s fussing with the keys. The corridor is dark, so Ed lights the lock with his phone for him. He’s been silent for a while, but he’s holding Oswald’s hand. He can almost hear him thinking, pages turning and a highlighter squeaking. 

Oswald opens the door and Ed’s hands are on his shoulders within an instant, turning him around. He guides him to the nearest wall with confident steps; Oswald can hardly follow him. He’s being pushed against the purple wallpaper, Ed’s chest pressing on to him.

They kiss. It’s feverish and hurried. Ed is grabbing his hips, slowly moving him to and fro like seawaves.

Oswald gasps into the kiss, voice small and helpless, and he’s hating himself for it. He claws at Ed’s neck, scratches his back, fingers finding their place on the buckle of his belt. He tugs at Ed’s shirt.

“Take it off,” he demands, leaning back.

Ed shrugs off the parka and starts unbuttoning his shirt. Oswald lays his hand to his stomach, caressing it, then he feels his shoulders, pushing the damp shirt back. It sticks to Ed’s skin and doesn’t go further down than his elbows. Oswald tiptoes, sinking his nails into Ed’s waist and takes his collarbone between his lips. He’s lapping at it, holding it between his teeth; Ed’s trembling  sigh resonates in his ears. He gently breaks the skin.

Ed slams his hands to the wall, next to Oswald’s head. Groaning, he grabs Oswald’s neck. Oswald swallows, and he can tell that Ed’s feeling every movement.

His grip is like iron. Oswald laces his fingers on Ed’s back, either to comfort him or to encourage him. Ed lets go of his throat just to press a hungry kiss to the burning skin. He can’t resist biting him,  so forceful that he might crush Oswald’s larynx.

With a choked moan, Oswald grabs his bulge. Ed freezes.

“Wait-wait,” Ed breathes. “You’d like to, huh, have sex with me?”

Oswald carefully slides his hand up, only his fingertips touching the exposed flesh of Ed’s abdomen.  

“Well, only if you’re in. So, wanna fuck?”

“I want to, but I can’t.”

“Please elaborate.”

Ed clears his throat, and bashfully pulls his shirt back to his shoulders.

“I want you bad. I do. But right now, I’m not ready. I don’t even have my equipment with me-”

“You mean like, a condom?”

“I want it to be special,” Ed goes on. “I’ve got all these ideas but I really wasn’t expecting that you’d be so… responding.”

“Oh, I see.”

“I just wanted to be with you today. Not in the Biblical sense, not yet. Making out is okay, fantastic, in fact, but no…” Ed indicates anal sex with his fingers.  

Something warms Oswald’s chest, and he chuckles. He pulls Ed down for a brief kiss.

“Understood,” he says.

“Sorry if I made you feel unwanted?”

Oswald peeks at Ed’s crotch.

“Oh, I don’t. Plan B.”

 

They go to the kitchen. The crystal chandelier illuminates the matte black antique furniture. Oswald decorated the place with thematic oil paintings, still lifes of waxy fruits, skulls, roses, roaches and knives.

Oswald gets a carton of milk from the fridge, shakes it, frowning, then bites it open. Ed is walking around carefully, the stip floor squeeking under his weight. Oswald puts two pots on top of each other, one is filled with water, the other with milk and chocolate. He starts humming to himself, and unbuttons his wet shirt. He realises what he’s doing once he’s almost finished. He peeks at Ed from behind his bony shoulders, and takes off the shirt slowly, warily. Ed’s gaze is fixed on his back. Oswald hangs the shirt to the cupboard knob. His skin is so pale it seems to be glowing in the shadows.  He grabs a wooden spoon and sets to work, blue veins straining on his forearms.

Ed leans on the granite kitchen counter.

“You know,” he says slowly, “I’ve never been with a man.”

“You’re bi, right?”

“Pan. I’ve never been with a woman either.” 

Oswald measures him.

“You sure?”

“Well, yeah.” 

“Hm.” Oswald stirs the chocolate and reaches for a bottle of scotch. “I’ve been with some men.”

“I hadn’t had the opportunity, I’m afraid, or maybe I did, but I didn’t realize it.”

Oswald scoffs, and pours the scotch into the bubbling chocolate.

“No need to explain. I’d swap places with you anyday.”

“Would you really?”

“I enjoy hookups in general, but I’ve made some bad calls, y’know.”  He adds: “They didn’t deserve me.”

He doesn’t want to go into further details. Before the silence would become uncomfortable, Ed hops on the counter. The oven cackles, and sweet smells fill the air.

“Her name was Kristen,” Ed begins. “Well, I guess it still is. We’re not on, uhm, speaking terms anymore.”

“Love of your life, eh?”

“I did love her. I was obsessed. She was on my mind every waking hour, she was every breath I took.”

Oswald turns to look at him. Ed is rubbing his face, glasses briefly pushed up. He lets them fall back on his nose.

“She’s my ex, but she doesn’t know.”

“Wha’?”

“ _Right_? We were in a relationship and she didn’t even realize it! I was so misinterpreting everything she’d write to me. I met her online, you see. We had only one date IRL, at Starbucks. I freaked her out. From my point of view, we were already a couple, and I treated her as one would treat a spouse, not a girl you’ve never actually met before. She escaped through the bathroom window. Had a waitress covering for her so it took me a good hour to realise what had happened. It was very embarrassing.”

“Ouch.”

“We haven’t talked since. She blocked me. She was smart, that’s what I liked about her best.” Ed grips the edge of the counter. “She had a fascination with violence, to a certain extent. She was cute. She was passionate. She was _hard to get_ , so silly old me made it his quest. We’d chat all night. Thinking back, I guess she didn’t even like me. I kept sending her basically anything I found fascinating. It became clear she didn’t even open the links. Once I made her a stop-motion video about her favorite poem. La Belle Dame Sans Merci. Keats.”

“La Belle Dame sans Merci hath thee in thrall,” Oswald quotes. Ed smiles at him. His whole face lights up whenever he does that.

“Not anymore.”

 

 **Edward Nygma** — is feeling fantastic.  
13 minutes ago

What are the 5 elements which make chocolate?

.

.

.

.

.

Carbon (C), Holmium (Ho), Cobalt (Co), Lanthanum (La) and Tellurium (Te) =  
(CHoCoLaTe!)  (-:

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Oswald pours the hot chocolate into his best set of mugs. He’s out of marshmallows.

They go to the storm-coloured living room with its red sofas and hazy mirrors. Oswald contemplates whether he should light the fireplace or switch on a lamp, but he’s more comfortable with the dull dusk at the moment. They sit down on a leather couch with elaborate wood trim, one of Oswald’s personal favorites. He pulls up his crippled leg, resisting the urge to rest it on the coffee table, and leans on Ed. Ed hugs him closer.

The smell of alcohol is heavy in the air. The chocolate is too hot to drink just yet. Oswald warms his hands by cupping the mug. There’s silence, familiar, comfortable, with the storm still raging on, rattling the long windows.

“I like hanging out with you, Oswald,” Ed says softly.

“Good for you.”

Ed blows the chocolate and takes a careful sip. He’s relishing the taste with the commitment of a gastro blogger, staring at the high ceiling, and Oswald silently snickers.

After a long pause, Ed clicks his tongue.

“I believe you just invented mulled scotch with an afterthought of chocolate.”

Oswald elbows him in the ribs, his smile glinting in the opaque moonlight.

“Shut up.”

Ed laughs through his nose and buries his face into Oswald’s ruffled hair, pressing a small kiss there. Idly, he starts playing with the velvety locks, watching how they swallow the ashy lights of Gotham.

“May I ask you something?” he says, voice faint.

“Shoot.”

“Your piercing,” he mumbles into Oswald’s hair, “did you get it because of your nose?”

Oswald strains, and pulls away so he can look at Ed. He’s clutching his mug with joints turning white.

“What do you mean?” he hisses.

Ed blinks, confused. His fingers are still buried in Oswald’s hair.

“To point out how beautiful it is.”

Oswald squints, eyeing Ed suspiciously.

“Heh.”

“It is beautiful,” Ed insists, enthusiastic. “I really like it.”

He takes the mug from Oswald’s hands and puts it on the coffee table, next to his own. He turns back to him, pulling him closer, and presses the tips of their noses together. Oswald fails to react. Ed chuckles, and kisses his nose.

“One,” he counts. Another kiss, now to the bridge. “Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven…”

“Okay-okay-okay, that’s enough.” Oswald raises his hands, trying to look offended, but he’s smiling. “I got the hint, thank you very much.”

Ed’s looking him in the eye, glasses slightly skewed. He flashes his upper teeth.

“I mean it, Oswald.”

“I know,” he croaks, then swallows. He should add something. “You’re handsome.”

“You don’t need to pay back the compliment.” 

“But you are. Handsome. Fuck.”

Ed tilts his head.

“You don’t often praise others.”

“I don’t, but here you are, fucking irresistible, right on my couch, and I wish I could say something, anything, which would convey how much I’d like to lick your pretty face but like with respect because holy shit you’re practically shirtless and you’re dashing and--”

He doesn’t get to finish. Ed forces him down on the couch and kisses him deep, tongue slipping between his teeth, Oswald’s mouth forced open.  Ed’s pressed against him, holding on to his shoulders.  His kisses are bruising, satisfied, triumphant. Oswald starts rotating his hips and Ed joins him, tugging his hair. Oswald moans, his eyes rolling back, and the voice stops both of them.

Oswald is the first one able to speak, voice raspy:

“You should decide whether you want to come or to go.”

“Guess I should… Better…” Ed mumbles, and bolts up. He buttons his shirt and starts looking for his umbrella, and Oswald follows him around, keeping his distance. Once Ed is ready to go, he faces Oswald, who stands some steps back, arms folded across his chest. Ed licks his lips.

“I, umm. Thank you for having me, I mean, like here. See you. Soon. I’ll be in touch. Erm. Will write you a message, so we can… yeah. Meet again.”

Oswald is smiling ear to ear, watching Ed putting his parka on.

“Don’t forget to bring your equipment.”

“Will do. Of course. Uhm, looking forward to...” Ed’s swaying in place and then nods to himself, stepping forward and kissing Oswald. It’s brief, with mouths closed. “Good night.”

“Good night, Ed.” Oswald opens the door to him. “Take care.”

Ed salutes, God knows why, and runs away. Oswald waits a bit, and he can hear Ed taking the steps by two, shouting a soft “yahoo.” He closes the door, and with his back to it, he starts laughing.

  


**Oswald Cobblepot**                       23:41

guess who’s gonna get laid tomorrow :>   
  


**Barbara Kean**                      23:43

not me if you keep messaging me  
go to sleep  
  


 **Oswald Cobblepot**                   23:43

:>  
:>>>>>>>>>   
  


**Barbara Kean**                        23:43

h8u <3  

 

Oswald rolls onto his back. The midnight glow of Gotham washes over him as he’s laying on the black covers. A damp towel is crumpled in his lap. His back and thighs are still wet from the shower.

Ed messaged him as soon as he got home. He fed his snakes and found some leftover lasagna for himself. He’s ready to meet Oswald tomorrow after his classes.

Oswald beams as Ed types the next message; it takes ages, which leaves some time for Oswald to marvel at the fact that Ed was there with him earlier that day. He was in the kitchen, in the living room, in his life. Oswald can still smell scotch and chocolate in the air and he can still taste Ed over Listerine.

 

 **R1DDL3R** So! Big day tomorrow (-: What do you have in mind?

 **xXxThEpEnGuInxXx** regarding sexytimez? ;)

 **R1DDL3R** Indeed, sir.

 **xXxThEpEnGuInxXx** hmm well rn I’m butt naked and in bed guess that’d be a good start lol

 **xXxThEpEnGuInxXx** WWYD w/ me if you were here now? :p

 **R1DDL3R** I would tie you up.

 

Oswald stares at the screen.

 

 **xXxThEpEnGuInxXx** haha! yeah?

 **R1DDL3R** I’ve noticed that your skin is remarkably sensitive. I wouldn’t only tie your hands, but your torso as well, so you’d feel the rope rubbing your skin with every movement. It’d leave marks, you know, beautiful red lines on your skin which I could see long after I’ve set you free. It’d be visible for quite a while, showing everyone that you were mine.

 **R1DDL3R** Would you let me do it, Oswald?

 **R1DDL3R** Would you let me tie you up?

 **xXxThEpEnGuInxXx** xeaych4

 **xXxThEpEnGuInxXx** srry har dto typ e w onehand

 **xXxThEpEnGuInxXx** *hard

 **R1DDL3R** Wait, are you...?

 **xXxThEpEnGuInxXx** i s it oK?

 **R1DDL3R** Yes.

 **xXxThEpEnGuInxXx** wan t a pic?

 **R1DDL3R** is typing...

 

The Facebook app, rude as ever, chimes in that exact moment.

 

 **Barbara Kean**                23:57

so how did it go?

 

_Oswald Cobblepot seen it_

 

“Not now,” Oswald mumbles, trying to close the app with his thumb. He drops the phone, tries to catch it, fails. His right hand is working on his cock, grip lovely and loose. He should probably fetch some lube. He forgets about it in the moment Ed replies.   

 

 **R1DDL3R** Yes, please.

 

Oswald bites his lips. Okay, this is happening. Okay, it’ll need some planning. First of all, he puts the phone aside without having replied. He hauls himself up, sitting with his back to the carved headboard. He tosses away the towel, swiftly and gracefully, as a belly dancer would drop his veil.

He glances at his member. Far from impressive. He licks his fingers and starts yanking it, but his attention wanders. Is there enough light? Should he wait until he’s at the edge of orgasm, panting and flushed, and take the picture only then? Is Ed also in bed, or is he still having dinner? He can’t decide which would be more arousing: Ed, innocently munching on lasagna while sexting his boyfriend, or Ed spread out on a well-made bed, hand slinking to the hem of his tented flannels.

He spits into his palm. He finds the hurried, slapping sounds humiliating. They remind him of his teenage years, kneeling over magazines and putting on CDs so mother won’t hear him as he’s jerking off to GQ, to tall, well-dressed men with killer cheekbones who would never want him.

They remind him of the creaking bunk bed in youth camp, the muffled breaths, the same slapping sound of a mutual handjob with a twink who’d whisper to him: “are you finished? great, now piss off please.”  

He reaches for his phone and calls Ed. He picks up on the first ring.

“Hey, everything okay?”

“I, umm. Just, huh, wanted to hear your voice.”

Oswald’s voice is weak and winded. Ed says:

“Oh!”

And then:

“Oooh. Huh, whoa. Well, what should I say?”

“No idea. You could just listen if you’d like.”

“Whoa, Oswald.” A slight pause. “So I won’t get a pic?”

Oswald grins. He finds a merciless, fast and dry rhythm.

“Mmm, maybe. Fuck, Ed. Oh, and sorry for just…”

“Oswald, I. Gosh, if I were with you now. You must look gorgeous.”

Oswald snorts. Ed sounds slightly offended:

“I bet you do. Pleasuring yourself just for me. I bet you make the prettiest O-face.”

“You’ll see.”

“I can’t wait. It’s like you were made for me, Oswald. Like you were designed in a way to meet my every need or something. I can’t wait to have you tied up, naked and perfect.”

“Are you serious about tying me up, baby?” Oswald asks, then whimpers. He tries to swallow it down, but Ed had heard him.

“Do that again.”

“A whimper,” Oswald says, articulated. Ed chuckles. The voice resonates in Oswald’s pelvis.

“We’d follow the safety regulations, of course. I’m still debating whether we should use panic snaps or trauma shears. Which one would you prefer?”

“I prefer not talking about safety while I’m jerking off, thank you. It’s not exactly dirty talk.”

“Filth, smut, mulch, mud,” Ed lists, seductively, and Oswald laughs. It turns into a moan.

“Fuck, it’s been a while. I’m close.”

“Are you? Yes.  Oswald, I want to hear you come so bad.”

“You know what? You’ll do when you do me.”

He hangs up. He can hear Ed mumbling “wait, what.” The phone immediately starts ringing.

Oswald lays back. He’s stroking his cock in sync with the ringtone, a devilish grin spread on his face. Ed is very insistent. He almost feels sorry for him.

The ringing stops, and then the phone chimes, once. Oswald snuffs and reaches for it.

 

 **R1DDL3R** Oswald.

 

That full stop does it. He can almost hear Ed’s voice, firm and commanding. Oswald’s cum sprays on his trembling stomach, and his head falls back, mouth open. Gasping for breath, he reaches down, and spreads his semen on his spread thighs. With his left hand, he grabs the phone, and takes a nice pic of his still thick dick.

He sends it to Ed.

His mouth is dry. The air heavy with the salty smell of sex. The lights fade back to opaque, and Oswald just lies there, utterly spent, illuminated. His hair sticks to his forehead.

Ed takes his time to reply. Oswald’s breathing is back to regular, and the covers, sticky and wet, begin to feel uncomfortable. He rolls over on his stomach.

 

 **R1DDL3R** Tomorrow.

 **xXxThEpEnGuInxXx** tomorrow’s thursday, why? ;))))

 **R1DDL3R** Tomorrow I’ll make you fucking scream my name.

 

* * *

 

Around five, there are three knocks on the door. They're quiet and eurythmic. Oswald slides down from the granite counter in plum underwear. He still triumphs over last night, a cunning grin he's trying to hide fixed on his face.

He opens the door. He rushes his fingers through his hair, tilting his hips. His muscles tense in his arms. He bites his lower lip slowly.

“Hello there,” he purrs and looks Ed up and down.

It's quite funny, really; Ed is balancing a box of praline, a bottle of champagne and a bouquet of black lillies, and a leather suitcase with gilded buckles.

“Hey,” Ed’s face lights up as he carefully lifts the suitcase over the doorstep. He hands the gifts to Oswald, one by one. “These are for you.”

Oswald snorts.

“Erh. Whoa. You shouldn’t have.”

For a moment, Ed’s covered in panic.

“You don’t like them.”

“That’s not what I said.” Bare, uneven footsteps clash to the kitchen. “Come on in,” he shouts back.

“I’m good, thank you very much,” Ed lifts his voice, gently swinging on his heels. “I see you haven’t dressed up yet.”

Oswald’s head pops up. He squints and scowls.

“Should I? You’re into that?”

Ed giggles and stays where he is, on the wrong side of the front door. Oswald doesn’t move either, but he can feel liquid distrust boiling in his veins.

“Okay now, real talk - what for?”

“I’m taking you out.”

“You should just take me.”

“I was about to. Then you hung up on me.”

Oswald bursts into laughter. He opens his mouth, dazed and agrin.

“Are you kidding?”

“We’re starting with a date. After _that_ -” he pauses with a vibrating breath and a dorky smile, “I might even keep my promise.”

“You might,” Oswald repeats in a husky voice and slides his left hand on his hip. His skin slicks to the wall. “Who do you think you are?”

Ed shrugs, all too cocky and know-it-all, tilting his head and crossing his arms. The smile on his face hardens, but his eyes keep laughing.

“I’m still waiting for you to get ready.”

“Come. On. In.”

A headshake.

“Ed.”

“I’m not gonna move a single muscle.”

“You know that’s impossible, right?”

“Changing the subject won’t help you to get closer to the fun part, you know.”  
  
Oswald runs his tongue on his teeth. He ponders for a minute. Both of them are staring at each other, confronting, then Oswald breathes through his nose. He spins back to the kitchen. The fridge door clunks and the tap rattles, and there’s a heavy tat followed by the rustle of the bouquet.

Then there’s silence.

Oswald doesn’t look at him when he comes back, stiffly, rushing through the hall and slamming the bedroom door behind him.

Once he’s alone, Ed lets out a hiccupy snicker, clinging to the door frame for balance. The voice is breathless, victorious and fucking loud, so Oswald howls out of the bedroom:

“I can hear you, bitch.”

The laughter rises.

  


Ed is parked in front of the apartment block. The car’s shiny, mint and retro with mellow bends and an original license plate. Ed scurries to the passenger side to open the door for Oswald, but a murderous glance makes him change his mind. He steps aside until Oswald wriggles himself in and smashes the door.

Ed grabs the safety belt and peeks at Oswald’s shoulders.

“Buckle up, please.”

Oswald scoffs.

“Drive safely, please. I’m precious.”

“You are,” Ed says, his voice surprisingly soft.

Oswald raises his eyebrows. He leans his forehead on the cool window pane and beams upon the foggy, slurry view of the city.

Twenty minutes pass by in dead silence before he starts speaking again, staring down the rippling river below.

“Where are you taking me?”

“To a truly special place. You’ll see.”

“For your own good, I do hope so,” he grumbles, and straightens his leather jacket.

 

 

After another twenty minute drive Ed slows down, and backs the car to a free parking spot.

They’re in Old Gotham, surrounded by gothic stone buildings that nearly stand. Cobbled streets crook around them like spiderwebs, street lamps burn with firefly-lights, caged in iron and glass. Moist fume swirls and wraps the sidewalk in a gleaming slime. 

“Ta-daaa,” Ed squeaks cheerfully and rings off the engine. “Here we are.”

Oswald would define “truly special place” completely differently.

He steps out of the car and leaves his faith behind. The sign swinging on metal crooks creaks and cranks, creaks and cranks.

Ed strides next to him, his fingertips stroking up on Oswald’s palm, reaching his knuckles. Oswald doesn’t flicker. Fingers intertwine, gently clutching and letting go.

“I still can’t decide how much you’ve fucked it up.”

“Let me help you,” Ed smirks and springs up three tumbledown stair steps.

A copper bell welcomes them. Drawling voices and noises shoot out from hidden loudspeakers, electronic buzzes and melodies of a piano. Oswald squints to see in the owl-light and looks around. Tones of cold colors melt into one another; there are violet, blue and green metallic lights. The walls are dome-shaped, enormous, covered in stormy wallpaper.

From the bottom of the walls to the high ceiling, there are bizarre paintings, sconces and bones hanging on curved nails. There’re bones of birds, big game animals and humans. There’re jars and jugs filled with dull formaldehyde, beheaded flowers swimming inside of them.

The tea shop is almost empty, the sound of chattering just a soft whisper.

“Hm,” Oswald says and peeks at Ed with his teeth clenched.

“Do you like it?”

“Show me the way,” Oswald gets out of answering him, gesturing scenically.

“Right.”

The old deal floor creaks under his bouncy steps. He guides Oswald to the cockle stairs at the back of the tea shop. Oswald glances at a small Turkish carpet with a sign: _Please Take Off Your Shoes._

“No,” Oswald declares.

Ed bites his lips and steps closer, hot air thickening between them.

“‘No’?”

“So this is your fucking plan.”

“I want to see you.”

“Yeah, well, wrong place, wrong time, wrong part of my body. Try again.”

“Let me. Please.”

“Colder. _Freezing_. You’re a terrible hunter.”

Ed suppresses, measuring Oswald with a pouty mouth.

“I could pick you up.”

Oswald heaves his hands and closes his eyes for a second.

“Say what now?”

“I could pick you up and carry you,” Ed grins. It’s his usual wide smile and it fades almost right away as Oswald peers at him. “You don’t have a choice,” he adds.

Oswald grabs Ed by his shirt. His nails sink into the fabric, wrenching Ed closer. He leans into his face.

“You won't humiliate me,” Oswald hisses, his gaze fixed on Ed’s calm features.

“I would never do that,” Ed assures him. His hands slide to Oswald’s hips, mild and afraid.

“There’s a _fucking line_ -”

“There shouldn’t be. I won’t allow it.”

“Excuse me?”  

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Ed says quickly, moving his hands down; he caresses Oswald’s thighs, slowly getting down to his knees.

Oswald looks down without blinking. Their glances blend.

Ed whispers:

“Hang on.”

Oswald grabs the railing behind his shoulders and lets Ed lift his right leg onto his lap. Ed unthreads the laces of the varnished Oxford shoes and gently pulls them off before leaning closer, fingers brushing through the bare skin of Oswald’s broken ankle. Oswald can feel Ed’s lips and breath, hot and heaving. A tender stroke, thumbs on this forefoot, running higher; a rushed kiss.

Oswald’s mouth is dry, knuckles clutching firmly. He breathes out rapidly as Ed draws himself up, his chin briefly touching Oswald’s knee.

Ed’s glasses are misty. He squints at Oswald above them.

“Do you believe me now?”

Oswald rolls his eyes and points his chin up. He pulls away his leg, letting go of the railing. He leisurely sinks down to the carpet, still out of words, and starts pulling his other shoe off. 

“Goddammit,” he growls.

The room upstairs is cramped, airless and dim. There’s only one window to light the smoky place up with dull, blueish blaze. Thick curtains hang from the ceiling around the tables to separate them, forming tiny boxes.

Oswald chooses the farthest table in the corner and draws the curtain. He feels alive again as the box hides them. The atmosphere is serene once again. Their hideout is snugly warm and cozy, dozens of fat pillows covering the floor. Ed slides to the wall and Oswald follows him; he sits close, packing his feet onto Ed’s lap to provoke him. Ed puts his palm on them automatically, caressing him, slipping his fingers under the pants’ cuffs.

Ed courteously hands over the drink menu to Oswald. The pages are filled with inextricable fancy names for each drink.

“What the shit,” Oswald mumbles and Ed starts giggling. “Stop that. They don’t make any sense.”

“Oh why of course they do. They’re enigmas.”

Oswald sighs wearily.

“I don’t deserve this.”

“You need my help with them, I assume.”

Oswald raises his eyebrows. He shoves the menu at Ed’s chest and starts building a pillow tower for his stooped back.

“Alright, genius. Order me something alcoholic.”

 

 **Oswald Cobblepot** — was here: The Cult with a sexy beast.  
he brought me to a tea shop. someone’s thirstyyyy #datenight

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Oswald is sipping on smoky black tea, rum burning the tip of his tongue. Rosepetals float on the surface, and he loses himself to the smell.  Ed muses:

“You’ve studied ornithology, right?”

“You know I’ve studied ornithology,” Oswald says, glancing at Ed through the veil of smoke. Ed rests his chin on the back of his hand, leaning closer.

“How come you dropped out?”

“YouTube pays better money, considering you have to pay for college, you know, and I used to be kinda broke. How about you?”

“Hmm?”

“Why do you wanna be a doctor?”

“A pathologist.”

“Same thing, everybody dies,” Oswald shrugs, and they both chuckle. For a while, there’s only that shared smile, and Oswald needs to poke Ed with his toes to make him answer.

“Yes, of course, sorry. It’s a rather funny story.”

He’s so cute when he’s flustered. Oswald licks his lips idly.

“Tell me a funny story.”

“I’ve wanted to be a crime scene investigator, you see. I didn’t pass the psych eval.”

“Didn’t know you need one. It’s not like you’d carry a gun.”

Ed smirks. His teeth flash in the dusky lights.

“Well, it’s Gotham. There had been some nasty business with the police. Anyway, I failed. I’ve got narcissistic personality disorder, you see.”

Oswald measures him, humming.

“I can certainly see _why_.”

“Funny thing is, they made me repeat the IQ test twice. They couldn’t believe their eyes, I scored so high. So, yeah, now I’m studying meds and I guess I’ll be a forensic pathologist one day. I’ve certainly got the brains. It’s just another way to solve the riddle, you get different evidence, different puzzle-pieces, but the question remains the same: how did they die?” He smiles. “I love talking to the dead. They don’t give you the answer right away, they don’t go into unnecessary details, they don’t try to shove their explanations down your throat. Have you ever seen a corpse?”

“Please, I do live here.” Oswald raises the cup to his lips, pinky up. “Wanted to take a piss in private. Turns out, the box was already taken. It was some guy, throat cut. He was the first one. I was twelve. I can’t remember what I felt, if...”

“Anything at all,” Ed finishes.

Oswald squints.

“Yeah.”

  
  


Oswald brought his camera. He buckles it to his palm and spies around. The world is tiny and sharp through the lens. Oswald’s eyes settle as he’s focusing on Ed’s face, cigarette waggling between his lips.

Ed grins. Oswald forces himself to keep a straight face as he lowers his voice:

“Tell us, Mr. Nygma. Where did you hide the body?”

Ed lights the cigarette and bites the filter. He lazily breathes out thick whirls of smoke and licks his upper lip, grimacing.

“There was no body left to hide,” he pauses with a dry swallow. He flicks the ash off and looks into Oswald’s eyes. “I chopped it into teeny pieces, dissolved the skin and flesh in acid, grinding the bones to dust."

Oswald zooms in to get a closer look of Ed’s pale hands. Ed chatters with the cup, nails scratching on the rim. The screen trembles and quivers. Ed takes the camera from Oswald and turns the objective toward him, bringing him into focus.

Their eyes meet off-screen.

“What?”

“It’s your turn, Mr. Penguin.”

Oswald winks vainly, leaning back. He slumps into the pile of pillows and spreads his hands.

“I’m innocent.”

“Hah.”

“I won’t say a word without my lawyer.”

“How did it make you feel?”

It’s Ed turn to zoom in, manually this time. His elbows crawl on the tabletop, holding the camera straight.

Oswald waits a bit and calculates. He makes his decision with a cocky snicker and gets up on his knees, leaning so close his breath bedews the lens.

“Satisfied,” he purrs.

The screen falls down.

 

 

“How did you find my channel?” Oswald asks, laying on the tabletop with his torso. He balances a teaspoon in his mouth, clinking the handle against his piercing. It makes his voice gibberish. “You’ve been watching me for seven years. I’ve checked.”

“I found you accidentally.”

“What made you stay?”

Ed gives him a long, inquiring look. He seems charmed, dazed even. His phone is in his hands, tilted slightly as if by accident.

The phone makes a sharp camera sound.

“That was smooth as hell,” Oswald scoffs.

He grabs Ed’s phone and rotates it, taking a selfie. The tip of his tongue is pressed against the spoon. It tastes cold and metallic. His eyelids fall, eyelashes casting a shadow over his pale skin, highlighting his freckles. Then he starts tapping on the screen.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m changing your wallpaper. You should answer me, by the way.”

“Oh. Right.”

Ed takes a deep breath, looking away for a moment. He glares at Oswald as he starts to speak again, voice deep and glottal.

“I was fascinated by you, I think.”

Oswald stares into his cup, twirling Ed’s phone between his fingers.

“Were you, huh?”

“I was. You’re worth so much more than others think.”

“Okay.”

“Honestly, Oswald, I- I couldn’t get enough of you. Back then you used to talk about yourself, only yourself, and I was mesmerized. By you. By everything. I’ve watched your videos again and again and I couldn’t solve you.”

“I’m not some kind of riddle.”

“Exactly!” Ed snaps and runs his fingers through his hair. He lets out a curt, breathless laugh. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to find someone who cannot be solved? Who cannot be pieced together by mere words? Someone who’s not a void mass of facts to learn, to read through, to forget? I’ve met thousands of people and all of them just stand there, inside my mind, naked to the flesh. And you- I,” he pauses to swallow and immediately keeps gabbling. “I know everything about you. Everything a man could. I’ve read everything, scrolled through all of your profiles and I’m still so far away from understanding you. You’re different. We are different. When we started talking, when we kissed, I’ve come to realize that I’ve misknown you, and I can’t say that I’m doing better now.”

“That sucks.”

“I love it.”

Oswald looks at him, sliding the phone back. It’s for the first time since Ed started talking. Ed’s desperate glance clings to his eyes; he’s shivering and out of breath.

“I love you. I know I do. I’ve known it since the beginning, or the night at the roof, or the first kiss we shared. I’m not entirely sure. It doesn’t matter. It just happened.” Ed shrugs, giggling, embarrassed. “It just happened,” he repeats softly.

Oswald doesn’t look away. He keeps observing him in dead silence, frowning, as slow seconds melt away. Then Oswald guzzles the last drops of his tea as he’s drinking a shot and smashes the cup back on the saucer. He clears his throat, teeth clenching.

“Hahha. Okay. I should get going.”

“You don’t believe me.”

“That’s not it.”

“Should I show or should I tell?”

Ed’s voice is boastful and hoarse. He doesn’t let Oswald answer him; he grabs him by his hair and pulls him close above the tabletop.

Ed kisses him. It’s different than the previous ones, yet all the same. There’s the violent start as he forces Oswald’s mouth open with cold tongue and quivering teeth; there’s the slow, whist snuggle of the lips as their kiss deepens; there’s the heat and the throb. Ed finds a lazy rhythm to follow with his tongue inside Oswald’s mouth, grabbing onto his shoulders helplessly, like he wants to savour every drop of suspicion.

Oswald’s knees start to tremble as he peeks at Ed. He’s unable to kiss back. Ed’s features harden, eyes closed, eyelashes fluttering.

He would do everything to make Oswald believe him.

Oswald draws himself apart, clinging to the table. He sniffles and pants, mouth still wide open.

“Let’s go back to your place,” Ed whispers.

His lips are flushed and wet.

  
  


The road is greasy under the Chevy’s wheels. Cloudy sparks slip into the cabin, pulsing rapidly. Oswald rests his elbow on the window and counts the drizzling raindrops on the windshield. His sight is unfocused, numb.

Ed drives mutely, his back straight. Oswald doesn’t want to look at him. Cold wave tunes crack from the radio. They make the silence unbearable.

Oswald doesn’t need to ask Ed to leave him alone. He can shut up when it’s necessary. Oswald’s mind is dull but his senses sharpen; the air is heavy and heated with Ed’s scent, Oswald can feel his heartbeat and blood rushing in his ear. Every breath Ed takes is like a hurricane tearing him down and it doesn’t make any sense.

He peeks aside. Ed’s face is hollow, expressionless. His lips move when he feels Oswald’s glance on them.

Oswald’s tongue is bitter. He can still taste the black tea. He searches for his cigarette and doesn’t ask Ed if it’s okay to smoke inside the car before he lights it.

The flame is sparkly orange. It’s disillusive. The fume tightens his lungs.

Oswald leans forward to change the channel on the radio while Ed grabs the gear knob. Their fingers touch and Oswald flickers.

“Sorry,” Ed says.

“Nevermind.”

Oswald can’t recognize his own voice, his own hands. He looks down at his palm. He wants to stroke Ed’s thighs, warm under the pants, feeling his skin getting warmer from his words, if they were even true; his fingers would mark their way up to his crotch, grabbing, tensing, circling. Oswald could nuzzle against his neck, right now, biting the flesh over the artery.

His fingers shake. He lifts the cigarette up to Ed’s mouth, unsure about his actions. His thumb reaches Ed’s pointed chin. Oswald’s lips slightly part.

Ed puts the filter in his mouth, his neck stretching. He sucks on it for a while, his chest heaves, his glasses reflect the red blaze of the traffic lights.

The car stops with a gentle sway. Ed blows between Oswald’s icy fingers.

Oswald pulls him down with a fierce tug and kisses him, eyes clenched. There’s still smoke inside his mouth and Oswald swallows it down, starving and ravenous. His nails deepen into his neck, tumbling closer. The gear stick is pressed against Oswald’s ribs and he couldn’t care less.

Ed moans into Oswald’s throat. It’s a blunt little noise, choking into a sigh, but it feels delicious.

Somebody blows the horn behind them, startling Ed. He tears himself away, stomping on the gas pedal.

He can’t see Oswald licking his upper teeth, deep in thoughts.

The cigarette goes out.

  


The snaps on the briefcase click. Oswald is sitting on the leather sofa, hugging his legs, watching as Ed pulls out a black hemp rope. He loops it around his arm. He’s standing near Oswald. Oswald’s only wish is to reach out and touch him.

“I don’t like pre-set roles and rules regarding domination and submission in general,” Ed chats. “I don’t think I have a preference. I’d like to experiment.”

“Okay.”

“That’s settled then.” He slaps his palm with the rope. It makes a whooshing sound. “Nevertheless, since it’s our first time together I must ask you for total control. Is that acceptable?”

“Yeah.”

“We won’t be needing safe words for now. If I do anything which hurts you, upsets you, or which you simply find weird or uncomfortable in any way, tell me to stop, and I’ll stop. As for my performance, I don’t want suggestions or comments during our time together. We can always discuss it after. I find any form of criticism a turn-off.”

“You’ll be great,”  Oswald says, voice flat. Ed chuckles.

“I’m a virgin. Don’t expect much from me, although I’ll do my best to make this experience pleasurable and memorable for both of us. If we don’t succeed today for any reason, we’ll discuss a date to try again.”

“Do you have this whole speech pre-written? Just asking.”

Ed smirks and indicates the suitcase.

“What are these?”

Oswald peeks into it.

“Condom, lube; I have those, but thanks. Gloves. Scissors. A toothbrush. So what?”  

“Will we be needing these? Apart from the toothbrush.”

“Dunno.”

“That’s the point. I don’t know either. Do you have any medical conditions I should know of?”

“I’m clean. I guess.”

“When was the last time you were tested?”

Oswald remains silent. Ed shakes his head.

“See? Discussing safety is crucial, so please listen to me.”

“You don’t know shit, so don’t go all sex-ed on me.”  

“What are the latex gloves for?”

“Slapping me or whatever.”

“I won’t slap you or hit you unless you ask me to do so. No, they’re for anal opening.”

“You don’t need gloves for that.”

“You do, if you care for your partner’s health. What about the trauma shears?”

Oswald looks him dead in the eyes.

“I’ll kill you with those if you don’t stop talking, and don’t worry, I’ll get creative.”

“They’re for cutting the ropes in case of emergency.”

Oswald sits back, spreading his legs. Still looking at Ed, he palms himself through his pants. At first, Ed doesn’t react. Then Oswald starts stroking his bulge, with lazy little caresses. Ed tries so hard to maintain eye contact, but his glance falters.

“Fuck me any way you want to,” Oswald says. “I don’t care.”

“You should,” Ed manages, gaze fixed on Oswald’s fingers. “Stop that. Please. Let me. Let me take care of you.”

“What do you want to do?”

Ed steps closer, standing between Oswald’s legs. He kneels onto the couch, thighs only inches apart from Oswald forming erection. None of them move.

“I want to ride you.”

“Oh?”

“And I want to record it.” Ed tilts his head, and gently squeezes Oswald’s wrist, pulling his hand away from his crotch. He kisses his knuckles. Oswald scoffs.

“You’re fucking unbelievable.”

“Are you saying yes?”

 

**RECORDED FILE 015**

 

The rope strains, creaking. The teal glow of Gotham flickers in the air like dust. The dull spotlights cast a familiar warmth to Oswald’s skin. He’s shockingly pale against the black rope, blue veins visible and shoulders peppered with freckles. He’s still wearing briefs.

Ed’s fully clothed.

He’s standing by the end of the bed, adjusting the camera stand. Being surrounded with his equipment comforts Oswald. Still, he’s thinking about the leaked sextapes overflowing the web, how others had let it ruin their lives (or two solid weeks of it, anyway) and how it doesn’t matter that he trusts Ed. All of them had trust in the person recording their admiring screams, and all of them ended up shattered and dragged.

The idea doesn’t scare him. If Ed turned out to be a fraud, that’d be easy.

Ed nods to himself, stepping back from the stand, and starts unbuttoning his shirt. He doesn’t look at Oswald, lost in his thoughts. For him, undressing seems to be a practical problem, something to be solved. Oswald mutters:

“Slowly."

Ed obeys him. He’s wearing a tank top under his shirt. He gets rid of it and takes off his white cotton briefs. His cock is a nice shade of pink, long and thin, slightly curved. Once he’s naked, Ed seems to be at ease. Oswald is the exact opposite; without clothes, he feels exposed. He envies the way Ed moves around, careless, casual. Only his smile, too wide, shows any sign of nervousness.

Ed kneels down to the bed and takes off his glasses. As he reaches to the nightstand, he leans closer to Oswald. He radiates heat and his scent is intoxicating, so fresh and clean with a touch of vanilla tobacco and tea.

Ed’s tousled hair falls to his face as he kisses Oswald. Oswald wants to touch him, to run his fingertips over his pretty face, but the ropes hold him back. The burning sensation of the rough ropes against his skin turns him on more than he would’ve thought, and Ed knows, the bastard. He’s caressing the already forming marks, and Oswald has to bite his lips so he won’t moan.  

“I need to see you,” Ed whispers, eyes dark. “Can I?”

Oswald nods, then swallows. Sitting back on his heels, Ed’s hair tickles his stomach.

“Open your legs for me.  Hips up, please. Perfect.”

He takes off Oswald’s underwear, sliding it down his trembling thighs leisurely. Once he’s ready, he leans down, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to Oswald’s pubis.

“Fascinating,” he breathes. Oswald’s cock is pressed to his neck, invisible stubble scratching it. He whimpers. Ed grins; Oswald can feel his teeth on his bones. He slides down to Oswald’s crotch, taking the tip of his cock into his mouth and then letting it pop free.

“You’re fascinating,” he repeats, and then covers Oswald’s glistening cock with his palm. His skin is dry and warm, and Oswald presses against it with a muffled sigh escaping him. Ed laces his bony fingers around the shaft, stroking it up and down. Oswald closes his eyes, head lolling back, and relaxes to the rhythm. Ed’s grip is good and firm, and just when it gets really fucking heavenly, Ed lets go of him.

Oswald frowns and opens his eyes to look down.

“Where do you think you’re...”

The latex snaps. Ed is putting on the gloves; they look as if black oil was poured on Ed’s delicate hands.

“I forgot to bring baby powder,” he mumbles. Oswald rolls his eyes.

“Tragedy.”

Ed bites the condom open, which Oswald didn’t quite expect from him. He puts it away, muttering something like “first things first.” He squeezes some lube into his palms, rubs them together, then reaches behind.

Oswald opens his mouth to complain that he’s bored, but then Ed kneels over him. He coats Oswald’s cock with the lube while preparing himself with his other hand.

He begins to move his hips.

Their erections rub against each other, hot, slick and heavy, and Oswald cries out. The rope cuts into him, a warning.

“You’re so sensitive,” Ed says, out of breath, and kisses the edge of his lips. Oswald yelps. His hips buck, and he’s helplessly grinding against Ed.

“We could get off like this,” he pants.

“That wouldn’t be enough for you, not tonight; besides, I want you inside of me,” Ed counters, surprisingly coherent. He sits back and pats Oswald’s knees. Oswald spreads them for him. Ed takes off the gloves and reaches for the condom. He starts reading the instructions on the back.

Oswald sighs, frustrated. Without looking up, Ed grabs his cock and twists it. Oswald cries out.

Ed puts the condom on him; it’s transparent and tasteless. He pours some lube over it, then grins, satisfied with his handywork.

“Excellent. Eyes on me, please.”

Oswald tears his glance away from Ed’s flushed cock, and looks up at him. Ed’s eyes are a beautiful, burning brown.

“You look gorgeous,” Oswald breathes.

Ed’s tight and hot around him as he sinks down on him, taking his cock all the way in. He presses his palms to Oswald’s chest, holding to the ropes for balance, and lets out a choked groan. He doesn’t move, and Oswald lets him just sit on him, still adjusting to his thickness, the pressure and the stretch.

As a minute passes by, he’s beginning to suspect that Ed simply has no idea what to do now. Lazily, he pulls out, just to the tip, and then pushes in, sharp and neat.

“Oh my,” Ed blinks. “Oh wow. Hah. Wh...a.”

Oswald tilts his head, eyebrow arched. He starts circling his hips, leisurely, sinking into him further and further in, and Ed greets every thrust with a wet gasp.  

He claws Oswald’s chest. His fingers crawl under the ropes.

He starts moving, finally, up and down on Oswald’s length, meeting his movements. They find a rhythm, frenzied and feverish.

Ed’s mouth hangs open. His eyelashes flutter. Oswald is watching him, committing his face to memory.  Ed is here with him, fucking himself on his cock, and he’s so warm. He wants to hold onto him, to hug him, to pull him closer, but he can’t, the ropes hold him back.

“You like it, Ed?” Oswald whispers.

“Gosh,” Ed manages.

They lock their gaze. Ed touches himself, in sync with their fucking. The very air smells of sex, salty and sweaty.

Soon, Ed is coming, and he’s coming hard. A surprised sob, and Oswald feels his muscles straining around him, and then hot cum spraying over his stomach. He winks.

“Nice one.”

Ed lets go of his spent cock, baffled, and looks down at Oswald’s abdomen.

“Oh dear,” he mutters. He kneels up, legs shaking, and Oswald slips out.

“Hey,” he complains, suddenly cold and lonely. Ed grabs the trauma shears, and almost drops them.

“Answer my riddle, and you get to come.”

“Wait, what?”

“I’ll cut the ropes and you’ll get to do whatever you want with me,” Ed explains, heaving. “But should you fail…”

“You can’t---”

The edge of the shears pokes into him, gently.

“Ten men's strength, ten men's length, ten men can't break it, yet a young boy walks off with it. What am I?”

“The fuck - Wait, why ten?”

“It can be more or less. Come on. It’s an easy one.” He leans down for a kiss. Oswald bites his tongue, demanding. It’s pathetic how much he craves Ed, how much he wants to lose himself in his flesh again. He lets go of him, reluctantly.

“Is it in the room?”

“Don’t cheat.”

“Is it a rope?”

Ed beams.

“Bingo.”

He cuts the ropes, one by one, taking his time. He’s humming. As soon as Oswald’s hands are free, he grabs Ed’s rounded shoulders, and forces him under him. Ed lets out a throaty laugh, and drops the shears; they fall to the ground, clanging.

Oswald thrusts into him, savagely, pounding him so hard that the carved headboard slams against the wall, and the bed trembles and squeaks. Oswald is kneeling on the mattress, gripping Ed’s hips.

“You’re gonna feel this tomorrow, bitch,” he hisses. “Fucking riddles.”

“But you solved it,” Ed pants, head hanging over the edge of the bed. “Enjoy your prize.”

Oswald flashes a sharp smile.

“Oh, I’m enjoying it. You drive me crazy. I’m gonna come into your clever mouth, see how you like it. Will you allow me?”

“Anything.”

“Wait a bit.”

With every rough thrust, he’s getting closer. The marks the ropes left still burn his skin, and Ed feels fantastic, tight and hot. Oswald pants, swallowing down a moan.

The spotlights are too bright.

He pulls out, and gets rid of the condom.

“Bon appetit, darling.”

Ed goes on all fours, and takes him into his mouth. Oswald grabs his hair and shoves his cock down his throat. Ed chokes, loud, but doesn’t pull away. Oswald fucks his mouth, guiding Ed to bob his head. It doesn’t take long. Oswald sighs and bends forward, shivering.

The spotlights flash and he’s coming with a muffled cry.

“Don’t swallow it,” he tells Ed, and pulls him up by his hair. Ed’s face, neck and chest are flushed, and his mouth trembles as he looks at Oswald. He smiles at him, gently. “Would you spit it out for me, please?”

Ed opens his lips, slowly, letting the cum pour down his chin. Oswald ruffles his hair.

“I love seeing you like this. Such a decent guy, who would’ve thought?

Ed grins, hungry.

He wrestles Oswald down to the bed and they sink into the pillows. Ed kisses him, smearing Oswald’s salty cum on their lips.

 

  
 **1,370 likes**        2 h  
 **oswald_cobblepot** #wellhellothere #boyfriend #bedhair #silhouette #thenightafterlol #trash #grunge #followme #oswaldcobblepot

It’s a photo of Ed, leaning on his elbows above Oswald. His hair’s a mess, falling and hiding his face. The curls shine with sticky sweat and filter-light. He’s only a silhouette of metallic contours and dark flesh.

 

Fragrant water swashes into the copper bathtub. They sit in the blueish, misty darkness, facing each other. They peck at the pralines, handing the champagne over to each other.

“I like sleeping with you,” Ed says.

“I’ve noticed.”

Oswald takes a greedy swig, throwing his head back. His hair is ruffled, his bangs sticking to his forehead. Ed lies back, pleasantly, and draws his knees up.

“Can I stay for the night?” he asks.

“Please. It’s not like I’m gonna throw you out after I took your virginity.”

Oswald offers him the bottle, shaking it tenderly. Ed takes it, but doesn’t drink.

“I don’t feel like you took anything from me.”

“Whatever,” Oswald sniffs. “I want you to stay.”

“I brought everything I need,” Ed reassures him. “But I’m getting up early tomorrow, I’m having a lecture. Sorry in advance for waking you up.”

Oswald shrugs. He lights a cigarette, fingers diving into the water, blurring the oily smears floating. The steam of the hot water and the fume mingle in the air, hiding Ed’s sharp features. Oswald keeps quiet, so Ed breaks the silence, patting his lips with the mouth of the bottle.

“About making love to you-”

Oswald snorts.

“Making love doesn’t look like that, baby. We fucked. That’s all.”

Ed tilts his head, looking deep into Oswald’s eyes. Oswald keeps the eye contact as he blows out circles of smoke, lips rounding. His healthy leg crawls up to Ed’s chest, shoving him back with a firm kick. The tap is pressed against Ed’s back as water splashes on the floor.

Oswald pops his tongue and leans on the edge of the bathtub. The surface settles with quiet, rolling spatter.

Oswald murmurs:

“I’ve never thought you’d be such a humble guy. You let me humiliate you,” He touches Ed’s collar bones with his toes, falling his eyes with raised eyebrows. “I liked that. I liked you all messed up and torn apart.”

Ed’s fingers enwind his ankle. His eyes are deadish black, crooked half-smirk lighting his face.

“Don’t be so sure about yourself. I’m a quick learner.”

“If I were you, I’d be fucking grateful for having an orgasm in the first place,” Oswald frowns and takes a drag of the cigarette. “First times always suck.”

Ed zones out.

“I wouldn’t say it did.”

“That’s not what I said,” Oswald pauses, swallowing. His leg releases Ed, toes caressing through the lines of his ribs. Ed gently strokes his ankle. “My first time was terrible. I didn’t cum. The guy humped me from behind like a hysterical chihuahua. I couldn’t see his face at least. The whole shit took like five minutes. He said he was already late for somewhere so I should just piss off. Whatever.” Oswald draws back his leg. Ed lets him, spreading his fingers. His features changed. “He was seventeen or something, so it’s not like I had any expectations.”

“How old were you?”

“You don’t want to know,” Oswald sets his septum and puts the cigarette out in the opaque bath. He drops the wet stump on the floor and reaches out to Ed. “The sponge, please.”

Ed puts the champagne away.

“May I bathe you?”

“No.”

Oswald pours heavy-scented shower gel onto the sponge, grabbing it foamy. He catches Ed’s glance.

Ed stares at him without blinking, expectantly and yearningly. His jaw tenses. Oswald scrubs himself, flashing a deadly glimpse toward him but Ed doesn’t flicker.

Oswald throws the sponge at him, hitting him on the neck. Ed is stunned, snatching the sponge and clutching it. Oswald turns around, sliding between Ed’s legs.

“You can do my back,” he spits.

Oswald hears a cheerful snuffle, hot breath tickling the back of his neck. Ed bathes him carefully, gliding his thumb through the crimson snake-marks on Oswald’s shoulders. He leans down, kissing them all over, sealing them with the tip of his tongue. His teeth sink into Oswald’s skin, hugging him closer with his free hand.

The sponge dips into the water, foam escaping from it.

Oswald points his chin up so Ed can come at his neck. He takes a deep breath, slowly letting it out through his nose as he melts into Ed’s touch. Oswald moans, softly and pleased, palming Ed’s knee under the water.

“That’s it,” he hums.

Ed pauses with a quick kiss pressed on Oswald’s cheek.

“Hm?”

Oswald closes his eyes, waving his hand.

“Nothing. Go on.”

 

**05:45 the_x-files_theme_song__full_version.mp3 ♪**

 

Oswald doesn’t wake up to Ed’s blasting alarm, but later, the sound of running water washes him to the surface of consciousness. The ashy lights of dawn pour over him, soothing, safe. He can hear faint footsteps and then Ed is tugging him in.

“Mmm, mornin’.”

“Rest up.” Ed kisses the tip of his nose. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”  

Oswald yawns, and buries his face into Ed’s shoulder. He used Oswald’s aftershave. He smells like he was Oswald’s.

“Make yourself hot. To drink caffeine.” Oswald mumbles.

“You’ve got coffee?”

“Ugh. Tea.” He starts unbuttoning Ed’s crumpled shirt, blindly. “I’ll be late from sleep,” he adds, and sucks a goodbye-kiss to his neck.

“Are you free this afternoon?”

“Yeah. We’ll uhh, when ‘mmm awake.”

Ed chuckles, and stands up. He gets his briefcase and puts on a black bowler hat, tipping it to Oswald.

“It’s been a pleasure.”

“Isn’t that totally my hat?”

“It might be,” Ed allows, and moonwalks to the door. “I’m borrowing it.”

Oswald rolls to his back, and gives him the finger.

“I’ll cherish it as if it was my own,” Ed sings.

Oswald mumbles something, incoherently, and  pulls the covers to his head. He hopes that Ed’ll be tempted to come back to him, but he hears the lock softly click. Offended, he turns himself into a burrito and sulks. His pillow smells of Ed’s apple shampoo.

 

 **Oswald Cobblepot**                        11:54

good morning.   
  


**Edward Nygma**                     12:31

Well, bonjour! Sorry, my phone was muted, I was having biochemistry. Also: welcome to my Facebook!   
 

 **Oswald Cobblepot**                        12:31

yeah now I know you  
 

 **Edward Nygma**                       12:31

In the Biblical sense as well (-8

How did you sleep?

 

 **Oswald Cobblepot**                     12:32

lonely : (

 

 **Edward Nygma**                        12:32

Awww. <3

 

 **Oswald Cobblepot**                   12:32

:p

know what I’ve been thinking?

 

_Edward Nygma is typing…_

 

 **Oswald Cobblepot**                     12:33

christ dont try to figure it out

 

_Edward Nygma seen it_

 

 **Oswald Cobblepot**                      12:34

so I really gotta film the new #BBB and guess you know you were requested and I think it’d be fun to make it 2gether

y’know and it wouldn’t be like super offensive         12:36

edddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddd        12:37

 

 **Edward Nygma**                       12:40

Cool! 3:00 pm, at my place?

 

 **Oswald Cobblepot**                        12:40  
fuck knows where you live but ok

 

 **Edward Nygma**                     12:40  
You could come get me ;-) My last class ends at 2:30. Saint Ambroise. You know where it is?

 

 **Oswald Cobblepot**                    12:41  
I know everything google knows

 

 **Edward Nygma**                       12:41

Great! 2:30 it is. Can’t wait!

  
 **Oswald Cobblepot**                     12:41

betcha ;)))  
ok im gonna get dressed and shit

try to survive w/out me

bai

  
  
 **Edward Nygma**                   12:42  
xxx hurry

 

**RIDDLE ME THIS; WHY ARE YOU SO FUCKED UP #BURNBABYBURN 21 | xXxThEpEnGuInxXx**

 

Oswald sits there, wearing his stolen hat and thick eyeliner. He boldly stares into the camera, lips arching. His smile sends a message: _kiss my ass_

“Okay, I get it. You’re hungry. You’re eating a yoghurt with a tiny ass spoon, wandering around during the shoot and you’re not willing to cut it out. It’s not like you couldn’t stare at me for twenty fucking minutes without that, right? C’mon, suck on that spoon. Suck on it nice and slow.”

The background is different. It’s not the usual antique vision, framed by Oswald’s baroque living room. This room is a fucking nightmare.

The walls are slate-grey and empty. There’s a single bed, covered in striped bedsheet and a staired shelf stacked up with books. The windows are shuttered, locking out the lights of the streets. The whole composition screams _dormitory_. It’s miserable and depressing.

This is the scene for every video the R1DDL3R makes.

During the shoot, Ed sits by the desk off-screen. Query slues herself around his forearm and Ed pats her, distracted and monotonic. His smirk is arrogant, proud. He doesn’t try to keep his voice down when he chuckles.

Oswald lets him and doesn’t cut it out from the video. His laughter is the perfect background noise.

Occasionally, their eyes meet. Oswald looks at him, revealing his profile. His glance is harsh and melting at the same time. He challenges and flirts and wins. Ed coughs. It sounds muffled.

“Those riddles, I swear to god. They’re _everyfuckingwhere_ like your life depends on it. Mine certainly does. If I ever hear another riddle again, I’m going to suffocate myself to death and leave a note behind: _the Riddler made me do it_. Would you like that? Or would you prefer choking me yourself?”

“You would enjoy it,” gapes Ed.

Oswald swallows back a snorting laugh. His eyes are back on the objective as he continues mercilessly:

“Let’s talk about your fictional style, my dear. It’s like my granddad fucked Encyclopaedia Britannica and they couldn’t abort you in time. I look at you and I see their regret and shame. How the hell did those sweaters happen?” Oswald pops his tongue, chin pointed up. “I hate them, I can’t even look at them. Take them off, take them all off and we’ll talk. You know how it goes. You make me fired up, so I’m gonna fire _you_ up.”

Then Oswald loses interest in the whole thing. He pouts and turns aside, chin resting on his hand. His face softens once again, the corner of his mouth starts trembling.

“So guys, thanks again for the heads up. I screwed the R1DDL3R,” he reaches out of the frame, dragging back a slightly surprised Ed by his collar. Query hisses around his neck like a huge, white scarf. Ed’s lips snatch to Oswald’s. Oswald tilts his head. “And it was _amazing_ ,” he purrs.

Oswald kisses him, just to be clear. Ed’s neck is dotted with scarlet bruises. His whole face, neck and ears blush as he lifts his hand to cover the camera.

A chucking sigh, vibrating in the dark. A thump. A snicker.

And the video’s over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading~!
> 
> Our amazing beta was Julie ( http://youwerethebestdistraction.tumblr.com/ )
> 
> Find us on tumblr: captaincuppy.tumblr.com // longstoryshortikilledhim.tumblr.com
> 
> Chapter 3 is on its way (⊙▽⊙)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: snakes are being fed live prey. the description is quite graphic. if you would rather not read about it, jump once Ed says “mice from the lab” and ctrl+f for “I wasn’t mocking you”  
> also, Oswald’s childhood traumas are briefly mentioned.

The comment section is on fire. Notes flash on the screen like hasty raindrops. Oswald scrolls them through with a victorious grin, laying on his stomach. New wave beats from his earphones.

Ed’s bedsheet smells like vanilla. The scent rushes through Oswald’s lungs as he sniffs the pillow pressed against his neck.

 

**xXxThEpEnGuInxXx**

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**Published on May 1, 2015**

make sure you watch the whole thing ;)

CLICK HERE FOR THE #BBB SERIES ► [tinylink]

THE NEW SHIRTS ARE FINALLY HERE!!!! ► [tinylink]

 

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 **ALL COMMENTS** (746)

Top Comments

 

 **Beefy** 10 minutes ago

fake

Reply + 265

View all 24 replies ˇ

 

 **carmichaL** 9 minutes ago

yea ok everybody lets just pretend we didnt know he was hella gay *cheers*

Reply + 478

 

 **Louu** 9 minutes ago

^^^this

Reply + 14

 

 **Tonggsss** 8 minutes ago

For fucks sake guys we’ve been pranked!!!!!44 jokes on us, we’ve been burned, that’s all, this is just the part of the show if you’re really as fucking stupid as you seem I don’t know how to react who the hell have you been watching this whole tiem???

that R1DDL3R guy is just pathetic why on eARTH would they hook up

Reply + 6

 

 **tiny_** 8 minutes ago

lalalalalala can’t hear u i’m looking for shipnames afhgezwgafurszwzeadfg

Reply + 69

 

 **Tonggsss** 7 minutes ago

@tiny_ Congrats for not having a life! Y’all need to think before you comment shit, if a fake kiss makes your panties wet then you have a serious problem. Take off those fucking rose-tinted glasses and THINK ABOUT IT FOR A FUCKING MINUTE. Have you EVER seen a #BBB that WASN’T a scam??? Jfc

THINK  
ABOUT  
IT

Reply + 2

 

 **tiny_** 7 minutes ago

@Tonggsss oh im pretty sure they scammed if you know what i mean. xDDDD anyways why dont we talk about the tweets and the insta photo instead? they seem real to me. just saying. you really should’t care about the things that make me happy cause i don’t care about those thing that make u happy, like being a bitch on the internet. if i wanna ship them, i will, and if you don’t like it, ignore it. shouldn’t be that hard. there’s no need to be a whiny slut about it

Reply + 9

 

 **Tonggsss** 6 minutes ago

@tiny_ SHOULD I SLAP YOU IN THE FACE WITH A FCKING DICTIONARY????

Reply

 

 **BOSSWORTH** 6 minutes ago

*grabs popcorn*

Reply + 89

 

“How does it look?”

Ed comes up the stairs, sliding his hand on the railing. He tumbles next to Oswald, feet wobbling over the end of the bed. Once settled, he rests his chin on Oswald’s shoulder. His eyes scan through the comments. Hugging Oswald’s waist, he steals one of the earbuds.

“It’s a complete mess,” Oswald snickers. He scrolls up and clinks the screen with badly painted nails. “That one’s my favorite.”

“‘I don’t get you all. Look at that face he’s clearly been fucked hard in the as-’... oh.” Ed hogs, the tip of his nose touching Oswald’s neck. Oswald can feel his trembling breath on his skin.

“Aww, are you embarrassed?” he murmurs, turning on his back.

Oswald’s right leg crawls around Ed’s waist, pulling Ed on top of him. Their chests cling together as Ed snuggles closer, elbowing next to Oswald’s head. Ed clenches his lips and shakes his head.

“It’s only the offering of the opinion that seems unnecessarily crude for my-”

“Mm-hm,” Oswald hums dubiously, putting his arms around Ed’s neck.

He grabs Ed by his hair, pulling him down. Oswald’s glance flutters up and down between his eyes and his lips.

“They don’t believe us. They don’t believe that you could be mine. What does it say about me, I wonder?” he primps, head lolling back.

Ed’s eyes widen.

“Does it make you unsettled?”

Oswald sighs, leaning in for a brief kiss. He breathes onto Ed’s lips:

“Your social skills make me unsettled.”

Oswald cracks a gentle smile. A new tune rings in their ears and he decides to have mercy on Ed. He sniffs, pushing Ed’s glasses up, running his fingers over his forehead and closed eyes.

“My Man With The X-Ray Eyes,” he whispers. “C’mere.”

Ed licks his lips.

“To do what exactly?”

“To throw them another bone, of course.”

Oswald rolls over to reach the keyboard. He opens the webcam, holding the cursor on the snapshot icon. He nuzzles closer to press a kiss to Ed’s stupid grinning face. Soon, the tiny pecks turn into deep, open-mouthed kisses, then crazy grimaces. Frozen pixels capture as Oswald sticks out his tongue and Ed pouts.

Once Ed’s done fooling around he hooks his index finger into the neck of Oswald’s shirt and pulls it down, towards his bare shoulders. His tongue caresses the freckled skin, up to Oswald’s left ear reddening with the piercings. He bites it, gently, with just a hint of teeth. Oswald smacks his lips and clicks on the video icon. He collapses back to his back, the earphones falling to the bed with a soft thud. Ed is above him, pressing their bodies against each other.

“Should we play something else?”

 

 **Edward Nygma** updated his profile picture.

1 hr

A man goes rock climbing but he slides and falls. At the bottom of the climb, he appears to be just fine. What happened to him? — with Oswald Cobblepot

Like Comment Share

 

 _Oswald Cobblepot_ likes this.

 **Oswald Cobblepot** u met me and fall for me? ;ppp

Like Reply +1

 **Edward Nygma** Correct! ♥

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 **Oswald Cobblepot** wait what

Like Reply

 **Oswald Cobblepot** im fucking clever

Like Reply

 **Oswald Cobblepot** ok i can see u typing soooo start crawling back

Like Reply

 **Oswald Cobblepot** to the bed i mean ;))

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Ed bites Oswald’s jaw. He caresses his arm with his free hand, following the purple paths of his veins. He intertwines their fingers. Ed’s thighs open, straddling over him. Oswald’s hips buck up to feel Ed through their pants. They’re both getting hard. Ed’s voice cracks in his throat and Oswald asks:

“Wanna try dry humping?”

Ed kisses him, slowly, taking his time. As he draws himself apart, he puckers his lips and takes a trembling breath.  
  
“I’d like to try some poses as a reference for our future times. Just to make sure it’s equivalently delightful for both of us, in point of well-being and effectivity as well. Is that okay with you? I wouldn’t like to make you... unsatisfied.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Oswald cups Ed’s cheeks and sucks his teeth. “You’re making me cum tonight. Just so you know. I’m not planning on leaving until you do me properly.”

Ed smiles, tilting his head.

“I want you on your stomach.”

Oswald obeys with a tiny moan. Ed wraps his arms around his chest to lift his torso a bit, nestling to his neck. Oswald pushes himself back, his ass circling slowly. Ed’s fingers caress through his arching spine, stroking him bone by bone. His other hand slides down on him, stopping between the tights with a gentle grip. Oswald sets his jaw, his head lolling back.

His restrained sigh makes Ed confident. He leans close to kiss Oswald’s shoulder, starting to move his hips hesitantly. Oswald snorts, falling back on the bed. He buries his face into the pillow, chucking.

“Is there something wrong?” Ed asks. He’s piqued.

“Nah,” Oswald mumbles. “You’re good. You can do it harder, by the way. It’s about the friction.”

Ed hums, grabbing Oswald by the back of his neck, keeping him still. Oswald whimpers. He can feel Ed’s stiffening cock through their pants, rubbing against him, making him weaker. Ed leans down, lying heavy on him. He bites Oswald’s earlobe, whispering softly:

“How’s your leg?”

“Fine.”

“Are you sure? If some day we were about to-”

“Shut up,” Oswald draws himself up, wrapping his arm around Ed’s neck, pulling his chin onto Oswald’s shoulder. Pain flicks across his leg, so he quickly bites Ed’s cheek. “I can take it.”

Ed raises his eyebrows but keeps quiet. His fingers claw Oswald’s skin, sliding under his shirt, making him cry out. Oswald’s arm tenses around Ed, wrestling him down with a fierce tug.

Ed slams onto the mattress. His glasses slide down on the bridge of his nose.

Oswald snickers, winking at him. He snugs himself, sitting on Ed’s crotch with spread legs.

“Too slow,” he purrs, thrusting their bodies together.

Oswald’s hips wave with steady, firm circles. The new rhythm is breathless and raw. Ed hisses, grabbing for the sheets. Oswald can feel the throbbing heat, pulsing from Ed’s flesh. His lips part as he looks up at him.

Ed’s glance is too eager and praising, sliding down on him. Oswald bites his tongue, closing his eyes. He hears a soft rustle, and Ed’s fingers stick to the bulge of Oswald’s tight pants. He’s barely touching him.

Oswald opens his eyes.

“Do you like what you see?” he whispers. His palms wobble on Ed’s chest.

“Everything,” Ed breathes, cupping his cock. Oswald whimpers. He sounds pathetic and fragile. “You’re stunning.”

Oswald slows down with a sudden withdraw. He spies around. His mouth is open, moving slightly.

Ed looks confused.

“What is it?”

“I’m counting the surfaces of the room I want you to pound me on.”

“Ah,” he licks his lips, his fingers caressing Oswald’s waist, “what did you get?”

Oswald’s crotch grinds down to Ed’s before he leans in for a kiss. Ed’s arms cover his back, one palm sliding into his back pocket.

“Seven,” Oswald murmurs, satisfied. “I’m not finished, though.”

Ed laughs, gripping Oswald’s ass, pushing him closer.

“Is that so?”

“You bet,” Oswald sighs, throwing his head back. He clenches Ed’s crumpled shirt. New lines cast a shadow over his neck. “You have a lot to do with me, Mr. Nygma. I hope you have a long wind.”

“No one laid any complaints.”

“Do you ever wonder why?”

“Not to brag, but my satisfaction index is at hundred percent. I only have regulars. They can’t get enough of me, apparently.”

Ed grabs Oswald by the hair, pulling him down. Oswald moans, biting Ed’s lower lip. Ed’s shirt crackles as Oswald sinks his fingers harder into the fabric. Ed kisses back, gently, calming him. Oswald draws away a bit when they’re out of breath.

They huddle up.

Oswald’s bangs stick to his face. Ed tries to blow them away, making Oswald squint. They both giggle, chests heaving. Oswald runs his fingers through Ed’s hair.

Their eyes meet and they melt. Oswald’s mouth is dry, every huff feels rough. Being so close is suddenly uncomfortable and too warm.

“What a hottie,” he says, leaning back so Ed can sit up.

“Thank you for the compliment,” Ed grins ear to ear, then tenses. “Oh my.”

“Tell me you didn’t just jizz in your pants.”

“Wha- oh no, no, I… they almost slipped my mind.”

“Uh, who did?”

Ed’s eyelashes flutter as he peeks back at Oswald. His glance is cloudy.

“Could we, eh.” He holds up his hands, showing a T-sign. “Take a bit of a break?”

Oswald grins, head spinning.

“Sure.”

“We can continue later,” Ed babbles, as he leans over the edge of the bed. He’s looking for something under it. “By all means. I just think that if we really get it on now I won’t be able to stop, and then I’d be the worst owner ever. They haven’t eaten today, save from a small breakfast. I can’t let them wait any longer!”

His ass is up in the air. Oswald follows its slight rolling, mezmerised. Ed lets out a triumphant little shout, and kneels up with a box with tiny holes in hand. He grins at Oswald, embarrassed, and carefully lifts off the lid. Oswald peeks into it.

“Whatcha got there, handsome?”

“Mice from the lab.” Ed offers his sweaty palm to a pair of trembling furballs. Oswald huffs, leaning closer. Ed is still radiating heat.

“Saved the poor souls from experiments, huh?”

“It’s so easy to steal them that it’s rather embarrassing, really. No one keeps an inventory or anything.” One of them is sniffing his wrist, tiny whiskers trembling. The other one uses Ed’s long fingers to get back to the fresh sawdust. “Did you know that  virtually all of their genes have human homologs?”

“Seems we’re family.” Oswald reaches towards Mouse One to humour Ed and gently shake its hands. He falters. “Do they bite?”

“Depends; one shall note that they’re knockouts, meaning that their behavioral pattern-”

“Will this specific mouse bite my specific finger if I try to pet it?”

Ed sucks in his lips.

“I don’t think so.”

“Hello there, then.” He caresses Mouse One, just a hint of touch. He grins, satisfied. “So soft. What’s it called?”

“He’s Logos, the shy gal there is Ethos.”

“I think they like me.”

“Fluffy little buggers,” Ed beams, and follows the line of Logos’ spine with a careful fingertip.

“Don’t your snakes get jealous, like don’t they try to eat them or some shit?”

“Why, of course! The mice are naturally killed beforehand, I wouldn’t want them to hurt the girls.” He lifts them up to his face and coos: “You fight for your lives, don’t you? Yes, you do, yes, you do.” He kisses the nose of Ethos, and Oswald notes:

“So they’re not your pets, then.”

“Oh, no, they’re just food. I prefer to feed them for a while myself before I’d give them to the girls. I want to make sure that they’re healthy and in a good shape.” He makes Ethos stand on her hindlegs.  “Look at that chubby tummy!”  

“She might be pregnant.”

“Obviously. She’s more nutritious that way, so I always make them mate. Other times I order frozen embryos, that’s pretty standard for snake snacks you see, but evidently it’s just a lot of fuss. Clearly, you cannot microwave them, so you must wait until they warm to room temperature on their own, but you don’t want to leave them out for too long, because if they smell even remotely bad, the girls won’t touch it. So pre-killed prey is just more… neat.”

A quick snap, and Ed breaks Ethos’ neck.  

“That’s a nice way to put it.”

Logos nuzzles closer to Ethos.

“Shall we feed the girls?” Ed asks, grabbing Logos by the scruff. Oswald watches as yet another life cracks between Ed’s delicate fingers.

 

 **Oswald Cobblepot** @xXxThEpEnGuInxXx 1m

me: lemme pet your trouser snake ; )

bf: *brings me a fucking python*

me: this is fine

View photo

 

Ed rushes downstairs, ruffled, excited, and Oswald follows him. The narrow stair with its high steps is killing his leg. The pain is petty but insistent. He  sets his jaw and narrows his brows. When he looks at Ed, his face lights up and softens.

The terrariums are near the round, smudgy window. The faint rays of the sun drift in between the shades. It seems Ed has built a complete ecosystem with lush greens and bizarre branches, with  cold stones and soft sawdust. Ed checks the thermometer, nods to himself, and adjust the lamp bending over one of the terrariums.

“Naturally, they’re heated, but some extra warmth is always appreciated,” he explains. “The positions of the tanks are far from ideal but this is the best solution I could come up with, given the southern exposure of the room. They don’t seem to mind it terribly.”  

Oswald bends down and eyes the jungle-themed decor.

“I think they’ve escaped.”

“No, they’re just hiding.” He puts the mice corpses aside and gets a tweezer. “Do you know what kind of snake is completely different? A Monty Python.”

He waits for Oswald to laugh. He rolls his eyes, and straightening his back, he says:

“Lol.”

“So,” Ed goes on with determination, “having a snake as a pet can be quite challenging, it seems. The hardest to comprehend for some nitwits is that you cannot touch them anytime you fancy.  I’ve had the girls for eleven years, they grown to trust me, but still, they’re not exactly social, and they don’t crave physical contact like a dog or a cat - or you.”   

Oswald swallows, dry.

“Shut up.”

Ed chuckles, and gets hold of Ethos’ tail with the tweezers.

“Once you hold them in your hands, you must allow them to writhe around your non-dominant arm. If you grab them, you must always leave a few inches under the head, and your grip shouldn’t be forceful at all, otherwise you might choke them. Some say it’s not advised to let them sit on your neck unless there’s another person in the room who can interfere in an emergency.”

“Wait, so they could actually kill you?”

“Oh, easily, very easily.” Ed opens up Echo’s terrarium. Oswald crosses his arms in front of his chest.

“Never ever put them around your neck unless I’m here with you, understand?”

“So far there weren’t any accidents.” Ed wiggles around Ethos, and gleams: “Look, she noticed it!”

“Ed.”

Ed looks at him above his shoulders.

“I always have a knife on me, just in case. Never had to use it on them, or anyone else, for that matter. I’m okay. I can take care of myself.”

Echo’s attack is swift and silent. A flash of shiny, black scales, and she’s around Ethos, sinking her fangs deep into the flesh.

“So,” Oswald asks, “you had them for eleven years, yeah?”

“Exactly.” Ed pats Echo’s head, then slides the lid back on the terrarium. “My father gave them to me.”

“You must’ve been pretty young."

Ed’s smile is all teeth.

“A real man knows how to handle them,” he says, voice hoarse. Logos is next, and Query’s tank. Oswald steps behind Ed, hugging his broad chest. He tiptoes so he can press closer, breathing into Ed’s neck, lips wet:

“You’re a real man, huh?”

Query crushes Logos. There’s a slow, sickening sound.

“Don’t ever mock me.”

“I wasn’t mocking you. Come now, you know I wasn’t.” Oswald bites his shoulders. He wishes he had fangs so calm could pour into Ed like venom. He presses his forehead between Ed’s shoulder blades. He can’t see his face, Ed’s still busy with the terrarium. Oswald’s hands slide under the crisp shirt, blunt nails scratching the sensitive skin.

Ed tenses, then reluctantly relaxes. Oswald sinks his nails deeper and harder. Ed grabs his wrist and turns to face him.

“You wouldn’t dare,” he whispers. Oswald tsks.

“Of course I would. Let me go.”

Ed withdraws his fingers with an alarmed gaze, as if he just noticed how firm his grip was. He looks at Oswald, pleading, needing, and after a beat, he leans in, pressing his mouth to Oswald’s. The kiss is dry, stubbornly rough, and Ed seizes Oswald’s shoulders to pull him closer. He opens his lips for him, inviting.

They lean on the terrariums’ solid metal table. Ed is frantic, his kisses quick and overly excited. Oswald lets him have his way, and then slowly seduces him into a velvety rhythm, with lazy licks and brushing lips which are almost shy.

He laces his fingers around Ed’s neck, applying just a bit of pressure and there it is, Ed is moaning into the kiss, pained, thrilled, and soon, Oswald will have him panting and desperate-  

His phone rings. The tune is violent, and the song is harsh. Oswald steps back, wiping his mouth with his fist. Ed is still out of breath, reaching for Oswald’s hand. He doesn’t notice.

The phone is in his hands. He’s tapping on it, pressing it to his ear.

“Mother! Hello,” he answers with a wide smile, turning his back. He can feel Ed’s eyes on him, burning like X-rays. “Yes, sure. Absolutely. How are you?”

He wobbles back to the stairs, grabbing the rail for balance. He sits down on the third step, legs drawn up. Ed doesn’t follow him. Oswald peeks at him: Ed falls his eyes, jaw clenching. He eavesdrops with a tilted head. His fingers are tapping, compulsively, his glance looking for focus. Oswald forgets himself into the scene, chewing the polish off his nails.

Gertrude’s voice faints in his ear. Oswald flickers.

“I’m sorry, what? Could you say that again? No, not at all, I was distracted. Come on, you never do, you know that.”

Oswald’s voice is tender, almost melting. Ed coughs.

“What did she say?” Oswald lets out a sharp laugh. “She’s one to talk, huh? Have you seen her new hairdo? It looks like a possum that’s been run over and spit on her head. Ha-ha, do that. You do that. No, seriously. She deserves it. Hm? No, I, uh. I’m not going home tonight. No. All right. Okay. Sure. I can’t wait. I’ll see you on Sunday, then. Bye-bye. Me too, so-so-so much. Kisses.”

Ed quitters. Oswald hangs up, dropping the phone on the stair step. Ed’s moving now, slowly, like a predator. He’s closing in, leaning his back against the rail. His legs are crossed.

“Was that your mother you were just talking to?” he asks, voice failing to be cheerful. His lips curl into a smile, but his eyes darken.

“You’re so open-eyed, it’s crushing.”

“She sounds lovely.”

“You have no idea,” Oswald sighs, lovingly. He’s playing, he hopes Ed can tell, but he’s still honest. He shrugs. “She’s the best.”

Ed laughs, grabbing Oswald by the collar of his shirt. He shoves him to the pillar that buttresses the loft. Oswald gasps. Ed’s body is pressed against him tight.

Their noses touch and Ed seems to calm down. Oswald measures him, hugging his neck with a pout.

“I’m sure she is,” Ed whispers. His grin is hungry. He lifts his left hand to grab Oswald’s hair, exposing his throat. “You’re such a mommy’s boy, aren’t you.”

Oswald clenches his fist, one hand hitting Ed’s back.

“What did you call me?” he whispers, voice husky.

Ed doesn’t react. His bites are more violent now, tearing Oswald’s skin on his lips and neck. Oswald moans, legs trembling.

“You’re the best son in the world, hm? Such a decent, taintless, pure soul. Isn’t that right?”

Ed’s voice is flat, his teeth are on Oswald’s lips. His grin strains.

“Fuck you.”

“My, my. Shall I wash your dirty little mouth out with soap?”

Oswald is trembling with fury, his nose whitening. He fists Ed’s shirt, trying to push him away.

“You shall shove it right up to your ass. Quit it. I mean it.” Ed bites him again, taking his Adam’s apple into his mouth. Oswald scratches his shoulders, groaning. “Let me the fuck go or you’ll be sorry for this.”

Ed obeys him, stepping back. He combs his hair with his fingers, looking confused.

“You reap what you sow,” he adds in a throaty voice. Oswald opens his mouth to answer, but Ed is hurried to add: “are you hungry?”

Oswald stares at him, still shivering, burning with rage.

“What?”

“Would you like to eat something?”

Ed’s avoiding eye contact. He puts his hands into his pocket, smiling and babbling like nothing happened.

“You should eat something if you stay the night. Have you eaten today? You haven’t, I assume. I could make you, let’s see-” Ed tilts his head, measuring Oswald. He doesn’t look at his face. Ed starts mumbling: “Calciferol. Riboflavin.”

“Bless you.”

“Do you like mushrooms? Spinach?” Ed comes round him, kneeling down by the staircase. He pulls up a horrid plastic box filled with kitchenware. “Cheese would also be beneficial for you, considering your malnourishment. Loose is not the ideal choice for you, I have to admit, but it’s protein-”

Ed keeps muttering and Oswald is filled with anger again. He snorts, stepping closer, crossing his arms.

“Nice communication skills you’ve got there.”

Ed doesn’t notice him, or he doesn’t want to. His voice gets a bit lower as he grabs his stuff and stands up.

“Could you open the door for me?”

Ed rushes to the end of the room, leaving Oswald behind. Oswald knots his eyebrows and reaches for his phone. He taps on the screen, ignoring Ed. He’s still waiting at the door, arms fully packed. He finally looks him in the eye, but his gaze is dead and hollow.

“Please.”

Oswald shuffles closer with an angelic smile, eyelashes fluttering.

“Why of course, sweetheart,” he sings, and kicks the door open. He spits into Ed’s face: “Here you go.”

Ed nods, more to himself than to Oswald, and steps out into the dim hallway.

Oswald doesn’t know why he follows him. 

 

 **Oswald Cobblepot** @xXxThEpEnGuInxXx 1m

communication is fucking key : )))))))))))))) #preech

 

Ed makes the spinach and the creamy sauce in utter silence. Oswald plays the same game. He hops on the counter between the microwave and the sink, scrolling through Instagram. He’s bored with staring at Ed’s back, trying to make it alright.

He didn’t even say anything about Ed’s apron which has a stupid “Kiss the Genius!” caption on it.

Butter splutters in the pan. The oven is buzzing, a heat of wave slaps Oswald in the face.

Then Oswald can feel Ed’s presence. He looks up, expressionless. Ed is holding a cutting board with huge mushrooms on it. His smile is empty.

“I need some space.”

“You’re breaking my heart.”

Ed curls his lips.

“To chop these mushrooms.”

Oswald spreads his legs, looking him deep in the eye. Ed takes a sharp breath.

“Would you-”

“I wouldn’t.” Oswald beats the counter with his nails. He whispers: “Make it work.”

Ed hesitates for a moment, then the cutting board tats between Oswald’s legs. Ed steps between them. Oswald’s knees tremble. He wants them around Ed’s waist, pulling him closer, feeling the warmth of his skin.

He forces himself to stay motionless. Ed starts cutting the mushrooms, and every time the knife hits the board, Oswald flickers. Ed looks up, scanning his features with an intense glance.

Oswald loses his temper. He whacks the phone next to him.

“Okay, what is it?”

“Nothing.”

Oswald leans closer, snarling.

“Don’t fuck with me. I really hope you’re not planning to be a whiny bitch all night, making a scene, cause I’m really not interested in that shit.”

“Do you want to go home?” Ed’s voice sounds bitter. His fingers tense.

He scoops the chopped mushrooms into the buttery pan, dispersing them with a wooden spoon. He’s still standing between Oswald’s legs, only bending his torso.

“Obviously,” Oswald says, quietly. “I’m making a row just because I want to go home. You really don’t get it, do you?”

Ed’s offended, stepping away. He starts mixing the spinach and the creamy sauce, while the mushrooms are cooking. Oswald swallows. Ed is ignoring him again, pouring everything together into a large baking dish. He puts grape tomatoes and grated cheese on top.

The oven keeps buzzing as Ed slides the dish inside. Once Ed’s finished, Oswald lifts his healthy leg, kicking him gently.

“Hey,” he croaks. “Come back here.”

Ed smashes the dirty dishes and kitchenware into the sink. They smack on the thin metal.

The knife is still in his hands.

Oswald waits a bit, letting Ed decide whether he wants to touch him or not. He doesn’t.

“Ed,” Oswald’s voice is flat but sticky cold. He starts to give it up. “Get your shit together. Don’t overstrain it.”

Ed’s glance flutters away as he leans over Oswald’s tight, washing the knife. He dries it with a dish towel, every move more rapid, like he was sharpening it.

Oswald quivers as Ed straightens his back, holding the knife to Oswald’s neck.

Their eyes meet. Ed’s gaze is violent and wild. Oswald provokes him with raised eyebrows.

“Am I overstraining it?” Ed asks, trembling, pressing his lips together.

Oswald doesn’t answer him. His features keep calm, lifeless, even. His chest heaves, in synch with his beating heart. He feels dizzy, paralyzed, and it’s not about the knife. Oswald grabs Ed’s wrist, pulling closer. The blade sinks into his skin.

Ed’s breath blasts through his lips.

“You won’t do it.”

“I could,” Ed groans, his smile is transient. Oswald’s thumb starts caressing Ed’s hand.

“Yeah,” Oswald breathes, with a shade of appreciation in his voice. Ed tenses. He tilts the knife. “You could. But you won’t. Do you know why?”

Oswald uses his feet to force Ed to draw near. Ed’s hips stick to the counter. The steps he takes are weak, stumbling. He blinks and pants softly, staring at Oswald, then the knife.

He’s hazy. And lost. And raging. It’s almost heartbreaking.

Oswald smacks his lips. He sniffles, settling down on the counter, closing his eyes. His fingers draw back from Ed’s hand.

“Cut me.”

Ed doesn’t move. Oswald curls his lips impatiently.

“Cut me open. Slit my throat. I don’t care. I trust you.”

Ed’s delicate fingers crawl up to Oswald’s jaw and cheeks. He bends his head back. Oswald can feel the cabinet’s knob pressed to his skull. Ed’s index finger touches his lips and Oswald opens his mouth, sighing, eyes clenched. He takes the finger into his mouth. Ed pins down his tongue, his nail almost touching the back of Oswald’s throat.

Oswald gags.

Ed’s touch tightens, vaguely, attempting. The knife is moving down, leaving icy paths down his neck, scratching his collarbones. The pressure is cold, but gentle, almost pleasant.

A pause.

Pain flickers in Oswald’s nerves. It’s blunt at first, growing sharper as Ed starts to cut a line under his collarbones. The procedure feels methodic, empty, detached. The knife draws back from his bones to his heart, then Ed changes his course.

He’s doing an autopsy.

Oswald is breathing through his nose. He lifts his hands, laying them on Ed’s apron.

The two lines touch above his heart. Ed hesitates. Oswald moans, imperiously, peeking up at him. Ed’s irises are covered in feverish flames. He clenches his teeth, then moves. He cuts into him again, sudden and more violent than ever, drawing the Y’s tail with metal and blood.

Oswald cries out, biting Ed’s finger. His nails tug into the apron, crunching it in his fists.

Ed drops the knife. It clatters on the ground.

Oswald grins with Ed’s finger between his teeth. He runs his tongue along it, making Ed jolt. His scars weeze blood.

“Pleased already?”

Ed is unable to reply. He’s mesmerized by the scarlet lines, licking his lips. He’s statuelike, white as a ghost. The tips of his fingers smudge the drops. His empty glance is focused on Oswald’s smile.

Oswald holds Ed’s hand, pulling his fingers to his mouth. He kisses the bloody tips, looking him in the eye. Oswald clears his throat.

“That’s what you wanted, no?”

“Yes,” Ed mutters. “That’s exactly what I wanted.”

“Great. Feel free to function like a human being.”

Ed softens and suddenly, he starts laughing. Oswald answers with a tender smile, letting Ed crawl into his shoulders. He bites into Ed’s lower lip.

“Kiss me?”

Ed kisses him, nervously. He’s hurried again, lips too tense, his tongue moving fiery. Oswald licks into his mouth, calming him. Ed draws himself apart, their lips still touching.

“You’re incredible.”

“I know.”

Ed giggles, kissing him again. Oswald cups his cheeks, forcing him to tilt his head to the right. He’s leading him now, tasting him, lazily and lewdly. He slides closer to Ed, hugging him with his knees. Ed’s holding his waist, pressing his chest to the smeary scars.

Ed draws away, burying his head into Oswald’s neck, licking along the line of the artery. Oswald throws his head back. His mouth is wide open, a low groan escaping from his throat. Ed kisses his cheek, his smile suddenly fading.

“Oswald-” he starts, demurred.

“Hm?”

Ed can’t find the right words. Oswald leans back, knitting his eyebrows, feeling suspicious.

“If you’re about to apologise, I’m gonna throw you out of the window.”

“I didn’t want to apologise.”

“Great. So what?”

“I will always make you smile - if only for a little while.”

“God, no.”

Ed starts gabbling, ignoring Oswald’s frustrated growl.

“A fleeting word that holds you warm, keeps your mind from any harm. So much of me I have to give - with no thing there, only love to live. The easiest feeling that you can think - though hard at times when thoughts do sink. Hold me close, teach me near - give me to those you hold so dear. In a time of need, when you're feeling low, remember me in the worlds you grow. What am I?”

Oswald takes a deep breath, opening his mouth. The oven starts beeping. Ed jumps, grabbing the kitchen gloves, tearing the oven’s door open.

Oswald’s blood sticks to his shirt like a brushstroke. He doesn’t even notice.

“Perfect,” Ed chatters. “It’s perfect. Beautiful auburn, look at that.”

“Gratitude,” Oswald says. Ed’s smile widens. “It’s gratitude. The answer.

“Correct,” Ed’s voice is soft. 

The air is thick with the crispy smell of cheese and spices. Ed puts the baking dish on the cooktop, taking the gloves off.

“Would you give me another moment? We should wait for it to get cool, so I’d like to do the dishes. Are you hungry yet?”

Ed twirls to Oswald’s other side, opening the tap. Steam blows, pipes rattling in the walls.

“No,” Oswald lies, shrugging.

Ed is working with huge amounts of citrus washing up liquid and unbroken enthusiasm. Oswald turns to him, one leg drawn up to the counter. He’s watching Ed.

“Aren’t you grateful enough to care about me more than the dirty dishes?”

Ed smirks, rubbing his nose with his palm. The tip of his nose is foamy and Oswald swallows down a giggle.

“Sure, if you dry up for me.”

“No fucking way.”

The corner of Ed’s lips twitch.

“You’re keeping us late in line with the schedule.” He peeks at Oswald, eyes glowing.

“That’s too bad,” Oswald purrs.

He leans forward, immersing his hand into the sink, drawing tiny whirls above the sink hole. His forehead bumps into Ed’s shoulders. He stays there.

“What exactly are we planning to do today? Enlighten me, please.”

Ed puts the pan on the dish drainer, grabbing the wooden spoon this time.

“You have to wait, I’m afraid. It’s all your fault, after all.”

“You confuse dirty talk with being offensive,” Oswald lifts his head, chin resting on Ed’s shoulder. He licks his earlobe, whispering. “If you wish to punish me, you have to do better than that.”

Ed’s spine shivers. He turns his head, gently kissing Oswald’s nose. He lowers his voice. It’s husky and melting.

“I’ll resolve all your doubts. Believe me.”

“That was almost arousing.”

Ed snickers, shaking the hot water off his hands. Lazy drops tap from the dish drainer. Ed offers his hand for Oswald, helping him off the counter. Oswald doesn’t know why he accepts it, so he smacks his lips at the dishes.

“Just leaving them here, wet and alone? Is that your style?”

Ed picks the baking dish up, balancing it in his arms. He follows Oswald’s glance with his.

“If they love me, they stay here, waiting for me to return.”

Oswald hums, helping Ed with the door. This time he doesn’t need to ask for it.

“Maybe they don’t even deserve you, if they can’t follow you right away.”

 

 **Oswald Cobblepot** @xXxThEpEnGuInxXx 5m

omnomnom #whenhecooks4U #looksdelicious #icouldbitehim

View photo

 

Ed doesn’t have a proper table in his room, so they settle on his bed, plates in hand, cozy, but not exactly romantic. A dark electro youtube mix is softly booming in the background, not quite improving the mood. The webcam is still on.

Oswald puts a spoonful of spinach on a bit of baguette and munching, steals a glance at Ed. Ed turns away, found out, and pretends he wasn’t just intensely staring at Oswald’s scars. He helped clean them, but Oswald insisted keeping on the blood-stained A-shirt, so Ed’s gaze wanders to the fleshy, puffy wounds again and again, fascinated.

“What?” Oswald provokes him, and pulls down the shirt with his free hand as if he was just adjusting it. Ed swallows down the food, hard.

“Does it hurt?” he asks, hopeful, failing to hide it. He idly licks his lips.

“Yeah. Scars tend to.”

“May I touch it?”

“Someone’s turned on.”

Ed coughs, blood coloring his neck and cheeks. His glasses slide down his nose and he pushes them back, irritated, then focuses on his plate as one focuses on some big quest.

“Huh,” he manages.  

“There’s no shame in having a hard-on,” Oswald assures him, catching a mushroom which almost tumbles off his baguette. Leisurely, he licks his fingers clean, enjoying how Ed follows his every movement. He clicks his tongue. “It’s just a kink. Everyone has some.”

Ed nestles.

“What’re yours?”

“Well, fuck it. It’s not like I’m keeping a list on them or anything.” Ed wants to interrupt him, but Oswald goes on, voice dropped: “I expect you to discover them for yourself, one by one, until you’ve learnt every single way to please and pleasure me. Prepare for a payback for this.” He pokes his chest, and his smile widens.

Ed chews on, thoughtful.

“You’d like it very much if I deprived you of your senses,” he muses. “You wouldn’t care for it at first, but once you got the silicon ball in your mouth, gagged and voiceless…”

“You love the noises I make during sex,” Oswald shrugs. “You’d be punishing yourself, not me.”

“It’s not about punishment, but the thrill. You’d still be whimpering for my touch, and  I’d know it. You could only breathe through your nose, getting more oxygen to your bloodstream, making your erection painfully long-lasting. But if I really wanted to knock your socks off, I wouldn’t stop you from speaking, but hearing. I’d have you wear your Sennheiser headphones, the same you wear in your gaming videos. You’d hear nothing but statics as I’d have you spread out under me on this very bed - or a surface of your choosing.” His grin sharpens. “You wouldn’t believe the difference! You’d feel as if you were far away from your own body and the whole experience, but you’d be coming back again and again, overwhelmed, not feeling anything for long seconds and then suddenly hit by absolute pleasure. You’d orgasm so hard your mind would be totally blank. Imagine what would happen if I had a knife at hand…”

“You do have a knife kink,” Oswald manages. His ears are ringing.

“Even a blunt knife feels quite sharp if it’s been in the fridge overnight,” Ed goes on, glancing at Oswald’s scars again. “It wouldn’t leave a mark. I could do anything to you. You enjoy being used, because that’s what you’re used to. I could give you so much more.”

Oswald scoffs. Ed leans closer.

“Have you ever woken up with a long member shoved up your pretty ass, huh?”

“I don’t sleep with my partners, so not really, no.”

“That’s what I thought.”

Oswald blinks. Ed is smiling at him, triumphant, serene.  He puts aside his empty plate, very carefully, then presses a napkin to his lips, drying them. Oswald looks down at his own dinner; he’s only halfway through it.

“Eat it,” Ed commands. “All of it. Please.”

 

There’re questions on the tiny bathroom’s wall, written with green and purple magic markers. They’re mostly riddles, presented without answers, and oddly, their names keep returning, OSWALD + ED, adorned with tiny hearts, everywhere. The ultimate solution, perhaps.   


Oswald sips, spits, repeats, trying to do something about his nicotine-stained teeth. Steam sticks to the mirror of the medicine cabinet. The shower is already on. The drops hit the plastic pan, heavy, the water heater buzzing loudly. 

Ed left him on his own, saying something about drying the dishes. Oswald has no idea how will both of them fit into the coffin-sized bathroom. Trial and error, probably. He keeps washing his teeth with the brush Ed provided him with. He’s overdoing it: his gums are bleeding.

He rinses his mouth and then splashes water on his face. The eyeliner runs down his cheeks and he smudges it with his fists.

He’s not feeling like getting undressed. Ed apparently wants him to wait for him in the shower, completely naked, pale skin flushed, but he didn’t even manage to take off his socks.

It’d mean too much.

Ed returns. His hands still have the fake lemony smell of the washing up liquid and his sleeves are rolled up. He measures Oswald, glasses obscured by the steam, and without a word, he pulls off Oswald’s shirt. Oswald has the sudden urge to hug his chest like some virgin would do. He flinches and lets his arms drop.

Ed’s folding the shirt methodically, looking Oswald in the eye.

“I must know whether you’re comfortable with this.”

“Then ask me.”

“Oh. Okay. Are you comfortable with showering together, or should I give you some privacy?”

“It’s fine. Switch off the lights please."

It’s surprisingly easy to step out of his pants, to let Ed take off his briefs. He’s merely a silhouette, as familiar as Oswald’s own shadow.

As they step under the shower, Oswald is reminded of the rain and angry kisses. Ed’s hands are on his waist. The water is lukewarm and all too gentle.

Ed gets a big bar of soap and settles to scrub down Oswald. It smells so pure - Oswald wants to memorize it again, the clean laundered fragrance, fresh and fantastic, he wants to remember the sensation of Ed’s foamy hands stroking him in the beautiful darkness.  

He’s listening to his own breathing and Ed’s soft, calming humming. He closes his eyes.

Ed’s palm slides down his abdomen. He’s barely touching him, and yet Oswald shivers with anticipation and inches closer. He gets some of the foam off and spreads it over Ed’s lean torso. He tiptoes, searching for Ed’s cold lips, waiting for him. He bites into them, tenderly. They’re sharing fluttering kisses, Ed caressing his back. Oswald guides his hands to his bare butt and turns back, stomach flat on the wet wall.

Ed presses against him, and whispers:

“Not here. Not like this.”

“Tell me you want me. I need to hear it.”

“Oswald Cobblepot, I want you, I want you, I want you.”  

 

Oswald is standing in front of the bed, naked, shivering. Faint lights wrap his clammy skin, filtering through the louver. His hair sticks to the back of his neck.

Goosebumps run through his spine. The loft feels chilly after the heat and the steam of the bathroom. Oswald stares at the bed, pondering. He wants to give everything to Ed, everything he’s able to, but it doesn’t seem enough.

He should wait for him here, clenching the sheets, legs spread, crying out meaningless shit like _take me, come and fuck me, don’t stop, don’t stop, please don’t stop_. That’s what he’s good at.

Ed’s coming up the stairs. His bare feet clap on the floor. Oswald turns around to face him, jaw strained, eyes flushing. Ed looks like a vision, a blurry daydream to meet Oswald’s desires. Oswald wants to touch him, to make sure he’s really here, here with him.

Ed tilts his head.

“Are you alright?”

“Yeah.”

Ed puts the lube and the condom on the nightstand, beaming at Oswald. He steps closer, fingers crawling up Oswald’s waist.

Oswald falls back onto the mattress. Ed crawls above him, helping him lay back down with a quick kiss. Ed leans on his elbow, voice raspy.

“May I turn the light on?”

Oswald squints. Ed’s free hand is resting on his thigh, caressing him.

“Whatever."

“I need to see you.”

“Do what you want.”

Ed’s smile is tender. He takes his smudgy glasses off, putting them away. The lights are too bright, glowing with hot, painfully sharp flames. They paint Ed’s skin golden, deepening the shadows on his neck and groin. Oswald swallows, dry.

Ed’s lips find his bare skin again. Every kiss is modest, adoring, imploring. Ed follows the path of the scars, slipping the tip of his tongue through them.

Oswald licks his lips, head lolling back. Ed’s laughing at him. Hiccupy breaths tickle Oswald’s chest. Oswald sighs, lacing his fingers into Ed’s curls.

“Shut the hell up.”

Ed is taking his time. Oswald closes his eyes and the sensations mingle in his mind: smooth fingertips and slippery teeth, Ed’s tongue, his tousled hair. It’s tiresome and liberating at the same time, being explored and exposed, curve by curve.

As Ed reaches his hip bone, Oswald’s stomach leaps up. He claws into the sheets, swallowing back a moan. He draws his knees up.

Ed goes on, stubbornly and firmly. He leans on Oswald’s groin, running his tongue all up his length. His nails deepen into Oswald’s thighs, scratching tiny marks.

Oswald whimpers, his back cambering. He’s already out of breath, shivering under him, gripping his hair.

Ed kisses the tip of his cock, lacing his fingers around the shaft. He looks up, humbly.

“May I?”

Oswald fights for air, opening his mouth.

“You’ve never given a blowjob before.”

“I’d like to try. Let me.”

“Fine.”

Ed breathes through his nose, cheerfully. He kisses Oswald’s cock again, open-mouthed this time. His tongue is circling around him, his fingers starting to stroke him, gently, up and down.

Oswald gasps, then moans. His hips buck, his cock slipping deeper into Ed’s warm mouth. Ed makes a surprised little noise but doesn’t pull away. He starts bobbing his head, savouring him. He’s too tense, analytical, paying too much attention to his own thoughts.

It’s still enough. That’s what flashes through Oswald’s body, seized with a burning cramp. Ed’s fucking clumsy, sucking him like he would do with a popsicle, unsynchronized, and it’s still fucking enough. His cock stiffens, hitting only the roof of Ed’s mouth.

Oswald’s panic is clammy in his veins, rushing through him like blood. He throws his head back, excessively, crying out Ed’s name.

“That’s it, baby,” he weeps, writhing under Ed’s touch. “Gosh. Damn, you’re so good.”

Ed freezes, staring up at him. His eyes darken as he straightens, letting Oswald’s cock pop free. Oswald huffs, grinding up at Ed desperately, grabbing his shoulders.

“Don’t stop,” he whispers, eyes hollow. “Don’t stop.”

Ed lays down on him, pinning him down with his whole weight. Air is squeezed out of Oswald’s lungs, making him gasp.

Ed’s lips touch Oswald’s, cold and wet.

“Lie to me again, and I will make you wear a gag.”

Oswald’s chest tumbles. Ed kisses the corner of his mouth.

“If anything I do to you is not comfortable or enjoyable for you, you have to tell me. That’s what matters the most.”

“That’s not-”

“Hm?”

“That’s not it. You’re good.”

Oswald’s fingers are tapping on Ed’s shoulder.

“So? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

Ed’s features strain. He sits back on his heels, grabbing Oswald’s broken ankle, lifting his leg across his shoulder.

“Does it hurt?” he asks softly.

Oswald wants to shout at him, irritated. His voice cracks as Ed’s fingers grip his bones fiercely, making him cry out in pain.

“Fuck you!" 

“Tell me it hurts. Tell me to let you go.”

Oswald tries to kick him and Ed beats off, grabbing his shinbone and letting his ankle go. Oswald doesn’t pull his leg back. His knee is trembling next to Ed’s cheek. Ed turns his head and gently kisses it. His eyes seem to be black, lightless.

“You deserve to be treated well,” he says quietly. “To be treated like you’ve never been and always wanted.” Ed takes his ankle in his hand again, kissing it hungrily, enshrinely,  graciously. His voice melts on Oswald’s skin. “I won’t ask for permission again and I won’t tolerate your little games. I’ll twist your arm if I need to, but you’ll stop me anytime you want and you’ll beg for me, choking on your moans, my name, my cock. Understood?”

Oswald heaves, unable to reply. Ed seems displeased with the silence, pulling Oswald up by his neck, kissing him ravenously. Oswald’s lips part, letting Ed’s tongue slip inside, kissing him more and more crude. Oswald tries to kiss back but it’s hard to keep up with Ed’s rhythm.

He whimpers softly, nestling closer. Ed breaks the kiss, biting on his neck with vicious little nibbles. Oswald cries out, huskier this time.

“Yes,” he breathes, his nails crawling up on Ed’s scapulas.  
  
“Pardon?”

“Yes,” he repeats, pulling Ed closer. “Yes, I understood.”

Ed grins, whispering into his ears:

“I’m glad to hear that.”

Oswald licks his lips, reaching out for the lube and the condom, dropping them on the sheets. He pours some lube on his palms, rubbing them together. His legs gently pull Ed closer and he grabs his cock. Ed twitches, sighing into his ear.

Oswald’s fingers start moving. Ed’s getting hotter and harder under his touch, kissing him again with chattering teeth.

Ed growls into his mouth.

“Good boy,” Oswald whispers, slowing down.

Ed’s chewing on his own lower lip. Oswald lets him go, laying back. Ed’s hair falls into his face as he puts the condom on, then the gloves. The lube is in his hands.

Ed kneels over him, kissing his forehead as he inserts two fingers. Oswald is caressing Ed’s cheekbones, looking him in the eye. Ed’s long, boney fingers sleek inside of him. It’s sweet, careful.

Oswald starts rotating his hips, breathless and suffering.

“That’s enough.”

“Will you be okay?”

“Yeah. Just fuck me already.”

Ed pulls his fingers out, lubing his cock. It feels cold and lonely. Oswald’s longing corrodes his heart and ribs, lighting pain in his groin. Ed needs to guide himself into him, holding Oswald’s cheeks. He throbs inside of him, finally, deep and tight and warm. Oswald closes his eyes, gasping.

“Oh dear,” Ed’s voice is flat, sounds far away.

Oswald grips the sheets. Ed leans on him, motionless, running his fingertips through his lips.

“Look at me,” he mumbles. Oswald opens his eyes. He’s too close.

Oswald’s cheeks and neck are burning. He gulps, pressing his lips together, pushing his hips up. Ed smirks, grabbing his pelvic bone with one hand, pressing him down. Oswald growls.

“Hey-”

“Hush. Let me see you.” He glances through Oswald’s face with fallen eyelids and an enchanted, proud smile. “You look adorable, Ozzie.”

Oswald’s stomach is sinking. Ed’s voice fills his bones and he has to roll his eyes to compensate. Ed doesn’t care. He starts moving his hips, finally, leaning in for shivering kisses. He’s doing him slowly, gently, in a spoiling rhythm. Every thrust hits Oswald deep, pulsing through him and he tenses and softens, panting quietly.

“Fuck,” Oswald whines, nails scratching Ed’s back.

He enlaces his legs around Ed’s waist, following his beat. His mind is blank. Their voices crawl under their skin and flesh, melting into each other leisurely.

Ed leaves new marks on Oswald’s neck, sucking and licking his pale skin. Oswald’s moans louden, nails sinking deeper into Ed’s sweaty back. His nail polish flakes off, sticking to Ed’s skin like ash.

Ed’s palm finds a way to Oswald’s thigh and he grabs his hair.

“Don’t,” he snarls, biting Ed’s lips. “Don’t touch me. I’m close.”

“Are you?” Ed beams, tugging Oswald up on him, pounding him harder. Oswald cries out, surprised.

They lock their gaze.

Oswald’s chest slicks to Ed’s, hot and heavy. His voice cracks.

“Fuck you,” he says, quaveringly, tensing under him. “Oh, fffuck-”

He’s coming with a hoarse scream. The back of his head hits the pillow, his abdomen buckles. Ed grins from ear to ear, looking down on his chest. Oswald’s semen marks him.

Ed kisses him as they change their pose. Ed turns him over, chest to back, holding his broken leg in his hands. His new rhythm is raw and rapid. Oswald reaches back, hugging his waist, offering his neck.

“Come on, baby,” he purrs, pushing his ass back. “You’re almost there.”

Ed is slowing down, swallowing dry. After a few more thrusts, he growls Oswald’s name from his stomach, gasping for air.

He pulls his cock out, trembling. Oswald turns on his back again, stroking his face with faint fingertips.

“I need a cigarette,” he croaks.

 

Ed opens the window with a cigarette between his lips. Gotham’s sweaty air and smoky sparks pour on them. Sirens wail in the distance.

Oswald climbs out the window, bare feet clacking on the fire escape. Ed’s following him, wearing briefs only. He gave Oswald a shirt to not catch a cold. It looks like he’s wearing a fucking grey tent, covering his upper arms and knees.

Ed sits by the bars cross-legged. Oswald is circling around him, nestling onto his lap. He stretches his legs out between the bars, waggling over the city. Ed kisses his cheek, hugging his waist.

Flame flickers. Oswald holds the lighter close to them, so they both can light their cigarettes. They breathe in at the same time, Ed is holding it in longer. Oswald leans onto his shoulders, staring up at the starless, vivid sky.

“I love you,” Ed says suddenly, breathing smoke into Oswald’s lips.

Oswald sniffles. He leans forward, kissing Ed hastily. He wraps his arm around his neck, his thumb stroking his wet hair. Ed tastes like vanilla and smoke and sex. He smiles into the kiss, breaking it.

Oswald pops his tongue.

“You really are shameless,” he mutters, taking a drag of his cigarette. “Pounding me like that, calling me whatever you want. If I were you, I would pray for my ass, Eddie.”

Ed’s face light up. Oswald is looking at him, curling his lips.

“Hey,” he says, voice echoing. “You should come with me. On Sunday.”

Ed’s lips part. Oswald can feel his arm tighten around his waist.

“To visit your mother?”

“Yeah. I could introduce you or whatever,” Oswald blows smoke circles, blurring them in the sticky air. “If you want.”

“Really, Ozzie?” Ed asks gently.

“No kidding. Forget it, I was just thinking out loud.”

“No, I- I would love that. Honestly,” Ed chuckles, kissing his bruises on his neck. “Thank you for inviting me.”

“It’s nothing. Just lunch.”

“I should get something for your mother. What does she like? I could make dessert, or buy her a nice bouquet. What’s her favourite flower? Does she fancy daffodils? A scented candle would also be a lovely gift, don’t you think? Ah, wait, maybe-”

“Say another word and I’ll strangle you and you’ll stay the fuck home,” Oswald snarls, entwining their fingers. “Chill out. Just bring yourself. I’ll tell her tomorrow.”

“Alrighty. Fantastic. I can’t wait.”

Oswald can’t figure out why Ed’s voice sounds sharp. It’s snappy as always, but something’s lurking in his words, frosting his ardor.

“Cool.”

Oswald stubs the cigarette on the bars. It keeps glowing for a moment. Oswald throws it out, scrambling to his feet. He clears his throat, pointing at Ed’s last drag with his chin.

“Hurry up and let’s go inside. It’s cold out here.”

 

Oswald is laying on his side, facing the stairs, monopolizing the whole blanket. Ed is fumbling with the terrariums and the lights, leaving the window wide open. He comes up the stairs with bouncy steps and takes his glasses off.

He hands Oswald a glass of water. He even put a fucking straw in it. Oswald peeks up at him, twinkling sleepily.

“Drink up,” Ed says. “You must rehydrate.”

Oswald’s tongue is parched. He lifts himself up, grabbing the glass, pushing the straw away with his fingers. He drinks with careful sips. Ed is watching him, smiling.

He takes the glass away, drinking the last drops, putting it on the nightstand. He wins the blanket back after a short battle. Oswald immediately snuggles close.

“Turn your back,” he mumbles and Ed obeys.

Oswald hugs him, sinking his nails into his collarbones. He nestles to Ed’s back and neck, tickling him with his hair.

Ed giggles softly.

 

Saturday begins with lingering, closed-mouth kisses. Oswald spent most of the night pressed to the cold, gray walls, clinging to a tossing and turning Ed who would murmur in his sleep.  The morning after is gentle, they share a cigarette leaning out of the window, watching the smoke dissolve in the early, bright mist.

Ed offers him tea and cocoa. Oswald settles for a tall glass of milk. He insists that he isn’t hungry but Ed equips him with a mozzarella sandwich anyway. He’s munching on it as Ed drives him home.

“So sorry for saying goodbye this early,” Ed apologizes. “I really need to study.”

“It’s okay,” Oswald assures him, and when they arrive, he swiftly gets out of the car. He’s ready to drop. “See you later.”

“Alligator,” Ed mumbles, and chuckles as Oswald rolls his eyes.

“Get out of my sight,” he snarls, and pats the hood.

“Til then, Penguin,” Ed sings, and starts the car. Oswald forces himself to turn away and not watch how the early Gotham traffic takes Ed away from him.

 

He drifts into the dark waves of his four-post bed. He’s so exhausted he could weep. He buries his face into a pile of luxurious pillows, and stays right there.

He’d rather be lying in Ed’s creaky and  narrow nightmare of a bed. He kneels up, gets his phone and ID out of the pocket of his crumpled pants, and tosses them on the mattress. Squinting, he draws in the curtains surrounding him. He rolls to his stomach, gets his phone back, and unlocks the screen to set an alarm. He stares at his notifications in disbelief. The sheer amount of unread messages is overwhelming. Well, apparently that’s what happens when he has better things to do than checking in every five minutes. Disinterested, he drops his phone and turns to his side, sliding his hands between his knees. Resting. Finally.

He wakes with a start. Instinctively, he’s looking for an exit, but he’s surrounded with velvety darkness. He slaps the curtains apart and there’s a flash of sudden, mid-afternoon light.

His skin feels itchy and slick with sweat. He kicks off the covers, realising that he’s been sleeping with his combat boots on.

He staggers to the restroom to take a piss, and he needs to lean on the wall. He catches a glimpse of his smile in the antique mirror.

Eddie.

The aftertaste of milk is sour in his mouth. He chases it away with a swing of raspberry vodka and wobbles to the living room. He turns on the laptop. The carved writing table is overrun with mostly empty glasses and Oswald stares at them with disapproval. The picture of a frozen chandelier fills the screen.

Oswald opens five tabs out of sheer habit and checks the usual websites. It seems it’s a hate mail day. He doesn’t bother reading them but the recurring hashtag, #SaveTheRiddler, gets his attention.

Did something happen to Ed? Still haggard with sleep, he begins to worry and fumbles for his phone to call him while scrolling down his dashboard to get more info.

He freezes.

 

nolongerfuckyeahthepenguingifs reblogged youtube--whore

**#SaveTheRiddler**

to sum up: penguin is apparently dating a lesser-known youtuber r1ddl3r as part of a particularly obnoxious prank. there’s speculation whether r1ddl3r knowingly plays along and pretends to be penguin’s boyfriend. personally i don’t think so. personally i believe that penguin is taking advantage of a fan which is like disgusting?

like it needs to STOP??? it’s a shitty prank in either case it’s the same high school stuff when shithead#1 pays shithead#2 if he asks you out to prom

even worse penguin is completely oblivious of his responsibility as an a-list youtuber. being openly gay does not excuse him for making fun of a gay relationship. like that’s it. that’s the joke. that he’s dating another guy. what the fuck. i want to vomit.

this time he crossed a fucking line. i urge my fellow ex-penguin fans to unsubscribe and flag the #bbb vid, flag those revolting tweets, flag the fb status, flag the fuck out of Penguin and use the hashtag #SaveTheRiddler because something tells me the poor guy didn’t consent to be ridiculed.

#I’m so fucking mad and disappointed and UUUUGGRH #but like what did I expect huh #signal boost #r1ddl3r #savetheriddler #xxxthepenguinxxx #bbb #fuck yourself oswald #FUCK. YOU.  #!!!!!!!!!!!!!! #tw: bully #tw: homophobia #spread this like wildfire

23,456 notes

 

He clicks on the R1DDL3R tag and scrolls down. All posts are like this, some even worse. He hits page up with all his might and clicks reblog. Before he’d type out his answer to youtube--whore with the best reaction gif ever, he goes to twitter to bitch about tumblr being a bitch again in 180 characters.

To tell them it means nothing and they’re wrong anyway.

To tell them there’s no reason why his hands would be shaking.

Apparently, there’s been a finish-the-sentence #SaveTheRiddler campaign on twitter, and he was tagged in every single tweet. His newsfeed is horrifying

#SaveTheRiddler because R1DDL3R is a cinnamon roll too good for this world too pure @xXxThEpEnGuIn #donttouchmybaby

#SaveTheRiddler@xXxThEpEnGuInxXx www.vice.com/.../youtubers-cruel-joke-went-too-f...

#SaveTheRiddler becaus I was at @xXxThEpEnGuInxXx ‘s meetup and they spent like 5 minutes together no chemistry #itsnotarelationship #itsaprank

@xXxThEpEnGuInxXx You don’t deserve a guy like @R1DDL3R. You’re making your living by being a scumbag #SaveTheRiddler

@xXxThEpEnGuInxXx Congrats you famous now jerkface :) www.bloomberg.com/.../articles/.../famous-youtuber-bullies... #SaveTheRiddler

#SaveTheRiddler because it’d be great if eternal love found me within 3 days :p @xXxThEpEnGuInxXx

#SaveTheRiddler or more like #SaveBBB - such a fake, flat prank! We expect more from you, @xXxThEpEnGuInxXx

 

He gets the fuck back to tumblr, and starts typing. 

_first of all: how dare you?_

That’s as far as he gets. He checks his mails instead. He shouldn’t have. Back to twitter. Twenty-six new tweets on the #SaveTheRiddler tag. The top tweet is one of his disgraced, drunk selfie, which seems to be becoming a meme. The caption proclaims him to be a selfish, evil prankster prick. At least they’re getting creative. Ed’s old profile picture got a flower crown and #SAVE THE RIDDLER is written on it in bold, italic pastel Arial.

Oswald pats his empty pockets, and since his phone is still in bed, he starts wobbling towards it. After a few steps he turns on his heels to check Insta first, leaning over the laptop. The comments are predictable and downright hostile.

Once he gets back to the bedroom he dramatically throws himself to the mattress. He rolls on his back and calls Ed, his left hand flat on the pillow Ed slept on after their first time.

Ed’s phone is switched off.

Oswald stares at the ceiling, panicking.

Ed must have read the comments.

He’s seen the hashtag.

Ed believes them.

Or he just wants to stay away from the shitstorm, and consequently, him.

“Stop bitching, Cobblepot,” he warns himself under his breath.

Ed’s phone is switched off because the poor soul is studying. He probably keeps his notes on his laptop so he might have seen the drama, but probably shrugged it off. Once he’ll be online they’ll have a good laugh at it and that’s it.

Clutching his phone, he gets back to the laptop and settles in his favourite leather armchair with it. It’s still surrounded with the equipment they kinda put back in place after their homemade sextape. They still haven’t watched it. Oswald has half the mind to upload the whole video just to show a certain cinnamon roll in action.

He logs in to Facebook, which is quite quiet compared to the rest of social media. He goes straight to his inbox; the “other” folder is overflowing and there are some surprised messages from people he hasn’t been speaking with for years. He cannot find Ed’s name so he types it in the search bar.

Ed’s account is a total trainwreck. The idiot made it public.

 

 **Oswald Cobblepot** 3:13 PM

heyyyyyyy eddieeeee

i’m not a fan of shit hitting the fan but i hope you’ve seen it it’s too hilarious

 **Oswald Cobblepot** 3:15 PM

haha

 **Oswald Cobblepot** 3:27 PM

https://scontent-fra3-1.xx.fbcdn.net/hphotos-xpt1/v/t1.0-9/11403459_823399624376478_6024566924967773895_n.jpg?oh=d41c894d0c0cfbee5b3ecd99b9a4358&oe=5617DA68  LOOOOL???

 **Oswald Cobblepot** 3:29 PM

pls call me once you finished studying and remind me to talk about sundy

 **Oswald Cobblepot** 3:30 PM

and we should discuss what to say to the press XD lol

 **Oswald Cobblepot** 3:32 PM

im so sorry for using “XD”. desperate times, desperate measures. please don’t leave me.

 **Oswald Cobblepot** 4:02 PM

this just in: we ARE dating but i still take advantage of you. somehow. (via tumblr)

 **Oswald Cobblepot** 4:17 PM

hah there’s yet another traitor of a motherfucker who’ been at the meetup

have you red it?

“I don’t think R1DDL3R consented to be in a fake relationship with him. He visibly made Penguin uncomfortable. Penguin is not attracted to him. R1DDL3R might be, so using him this way is just not cool.”

we should’ve invited him to the roof ;) let him watch ;)

 **Oswald Cobblepot** 4:19 PM

“I don’t see what the fuss is all about, Riddler s annoying, Id like to see him burn.”

ugh

should I protect your honor and swear vengeance against he/she/them?

 **Oswald Cobblepot** 4:20 PM

apparently im abusing you??? wtf. brb gotta put on my wifebeater.

 **Oswald Cobblepot** 4:23 PM

eddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddie

stop studying

youre already smart enough

 **Oswald Cobblepot** 4:24 PM

<3

 **Oswald Cobblepot** 4:28 PM

they’re wrong. by the way.

 **Oswald Cobblepot** 4:35 PM

venusinfurs ---> is this kristen? she keeps messaging me and it sounds like she knows you personally?

 **Oswald Cobblepot** 4:43 PM

they dont know shit

 **Oswald Cobblepot** 4:55 PM

5

 **Oswald Cobblepot** 4:56 PM

4

 **Oswald Cobblepot** 4:57 PM

3

 **Oswald Cobblepot** 4:58 PM

2

 **Oswald Cobblepot** 4:59 PM

1

 **Oswald Cobblepot** 5:00 PM

ABRAFUCKINGDABRA GET YOUR ASS ONLINE

 **Oswald Cobblepot** 5:09 PM

we made it, baby. we made it to 4chan. this is our fucking legacy.

 **Oswald Cobblepot** 6:12 PM

riddle me this: my boyfriend, who doesn’t message me back. who am i.

 

Oswald is lying on the wooden floor of the bathroom. He’s crying like a little bitch.

His phone rings at one point, but there’s no way he’s answering it in this state.

He’s crying out of anger and frustration, the wet sounds of sobbing fucking humiliating. He’s crunching up his face, nose running, pulling his knees to his chest.

As he’s lying there, the memories come back to taunt him. He’s walking on the bridges he tried so hard to burn down, unable to stop. The last time he was wailing like this was in high school. He’d hide in the restroom so no one would hear him. Of course, once he’s made a habit of it his classmates started calling him Pissy Penguin the Pansy Princess, or Moaning Myrtle for short.

They got a bit better at nicknames by the time they graduated. Oswald appeared as Oswald Wobbleslot in the yearbook. The masterminds behind it earned some stern words from the principal, but Oswald was the one who had to correct his name in every single copy with an unequipped sticker maker.

YouTube can take away everything it had given. If the shitstorm goes on and he keeps losing subscribers, then he will lose his sponsors as well, and then he’ll earn less and less, maybe he’ll have to sell the fucking microcar, then his best clothes, and then…

The phone rings again.  (Hello? It’s Oswald Wobbleslot.)

He reaches for it, and squints at the too bright screen, still sobbing.

 **E. Nygma** is calling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading~!
> 
> Our amazing beta was [Julie](http://determettation.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Internetland-hates-me made a beautiful fanart for #BT and we haven't stopped screaming ever since, [[check it out](http://internetland-hates-me.tumblr.com/post/138224895428/illustration-for-the-boyfriendtag-nygmobblepot)]
> 
> Find us on tumblr: [captaincuppy.tumblr.com](http://captaincuppy.tumblr.com/) // [longstoryshortikilledhim.tumblr.com](http://longstoryshortikilledhim.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Chapter 4 is on its way (・_・)ノ


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: brief reference to a past suicidal attempt and Ed's childhood being fucked up

E. Nygma is calling

 

Oswald swallows back a sob, and before he would pick up, he whispers a soft hello, just to make sure his voice won’t waver.

“Hey.”

“Are you crying?”

So that’s Ed’s first question. Oswald snorts. He curls up on the bathroom’s floor, miserable and cold.

“I’m fine. How did your studying go?”

“Your voice is weird,” Ed insists.

“You’re weird,” Oswald snaps back, and softly, he adds: “My weirdo of a boyfriend.”

“ _Ozzie._ ”

“Okay, look, have you read them?”

“What? Umm, yeah.”

“And?”

“So does this… internet-thingie make you upset?”

“You mean the whole web tearing me a new one?” A sharp exhale. “Nah. Haha.”

Ed doesn’t say anything. Oswald can only hear his own breathing, wet, ragged and rapid, and he sniffs.

“Stay exactly where you are,” Ed says dryly, and hangs up.

 

Oswald reblogs some shit with the tumblr app: picture frames on fire; a subway in snow; bruises in the color of galaxies; a pink bag packed with Glocks and AutoMags.

As he’s scrolling down, building back his usual life jpg by jpg, it feels like every negative post is addressed to him. The universal disappointment of millennials, their anxiety and muffled cries, even the happy little FUCKs and NOs and STAPHs in the tags seem like a personal attack, a conspiracy to blame him. _Your Fave is Problematic_ , he reads. _Toxic, toxic, toxic_.

 

XXXThePenguinGifs, which he followed out of sheer narcissism, is steadily posting his life, broadcasting his languid smile; Ed’s been cut out of the frame.

He keeps scrolling and keeps waiting. The app won’t load half of the images, and honestly, he’s thanking his luck for it.

He runs into Ed’s pixelated grin as the boy, around eighteen, holds up a mug with a question mark in a gif. The hashtag reads #protect him at all costs

Oswald is lying on his back, boots hooked to the tub’s edge, phone dropped to his chest. Ed finds him like this. Seeing him doesn’t take Oswald by surprise, as if he was half expecting that Ed would just casually break in, the same way he let himself into his life, helping himself to his heart. Ed is standing above him, feet in line with Oswald face puffy from crying. Oswald gently grabs Ed’s ankles, creasing the freshly ironed trousers, carefully rolled up to show off worn Oxford shoes.

“Am I hurting you?” he asks.

“We’re hurting each other,” Ed says. “That’s what we both want.”

“If I really wanted to hurt you,” he pants, “it wouldn’t look like this. They have no idea what I’m capable of.”

Ed kneels down, and Oswald lets go of his ankles. The translucent curtains do little to hide the purple storm outside the bathroom’s tall windows.  Ed had switched on the lights in the living room; a ray of heavy gold radiates around his silhouette as he leans down to Oswald, damp hair falling to his face.

His thumbs touch Oswald’s cheeks, fingers following the red circles under his eyes, and Ed says, out of breath:

“You’ve _been_ crying.”  

“So what?”

Ed kisses him, upside down. His lips are cold, and the kiss is clumsy, thanks to the strange angle. Oswald draws back a bit so he can lick into Ed’s mouth, slow and hungry. Ed lets out a trembling sigh.

“They can’t hurt you.”

“You won’t let them, mmm?”

Ed is taken aback. He slowly blinks behind the smudged glasses.

“Well, of course I won’t,” he says, “but I meant that you’re… You’re so damn strong, you know?”

Oswald scoffs, and wiggles his fingers: 

“Help me stand so I can kick some ass.”

 

**LIVE Q &A: IS xXxThEpEnGuInxXx  MY BOYFRIEND? YES. | R1DDL3R**

The footage is twilit. Streaming live, the screen is late and their silhouettes are rugged and shifted.

Oswald’s stormy living room can be seen in the background.

Ed’s wearing a sharp smile, a checkered shirt and a denim jacket. His glasses are up on his forehead, soggy curls sticking to his skin. He’s sprawled on the leather armchair. Oswald’s sitting on the armrest, leaning onto Ed’s shoulders. He’s not wearing anything but a black, silk robe, exposing his bare chest, white as his bones. His skin is marked with Ed’s possessiveness - he’s been bitten, cut, scratched and kissed, leaving scarlet and ochre signes.

Ed’s pulling him closer as Oswald’s red eyes are scanning through the questions. His lips are apart.

“Okay. Everybody can see and hear us. Great.”

New names flash on the screen.

“ _What the fuck happened to Penguin?_ , as our first appraisable question. You guys don’t crap around,” Oswald adjusts the robe on his shoulders. He points his chin towards Ed. “He happened to me.”

“I happened to him,” Ed confirms, caressing Oswald’s back. Oswald rests his cheek on Ed’s shoulder. He puckers his brows.

“Look, they’re bitching.”

Ed sniffs indignantly. He follows his marks by memory, murmuring with dark, glowing eyes:

“Ropes. The knife. Teeth,” he pauses. His fingertip stays on the intersection of the cuts. “Did I forget anything, darling?”

“Mm. You didn’t,” Oswald purrs, stroking Ed’s hand on his chest.

Ed leans closer to the screen.

“No, my Facebook account’s never been hacked. What made you think that?”

“Oh yeah. Someone was a real pain in the ass about that one. They said your new profile pic’s Photoshopped and our comments are fake… stuff like that.”

“I’m in a possession of dozens of other pictures taken that day. Video recordings as well.”

“Something we can’t show you on _this_ Tube. Next one, please. Fuck, that’s my favorite. Did you know that you’re straight? Shall I start saving up for surgery?”

Ed grimaces, pressing his lips together.

“I was expecting more consistent questions.”

“Welcome to the Internet. Chill, babe. Okay, uh. Most people care about the meetup in Robinson’s Park, like, _what happened there, you had no chemistry I saw you, Penguin literally ran away from Riddler,”_ Oswald tsks. _“_ That’s harsh, jamie3402.”

Ed looks up with a dreamy expression.

“It’s true that nothing much happened during the meetup.”

“Yeah, but I stole you away and things finally started to get interesting.”

“It’s been a lovely night.”

“Mm-hm,” Oswald runs his fingertips through Ed’s lips. His thumb raises his chin. Oswald grins, whispering into Ed’s slightly opened mouth. “Which part did you like best?”

“Is that a question, too?”

“It’s my question. I’m high priority.”

Ed kisses Oswald’s fingers, one by one. He lets himself to be lost in his glance, tilting his head. His gentle smile smudges in 480p.

“The night in the subway.”

“When we made out?”

“When you told me that you liked me.”

Oswald breathes through his nose and bites his lower lip. He mumbles:

“Does this mean that you don’t want to be kissed anymore?”

“Don’t you dare.”

“Try me.”

Ed reaches up, drawing Oswald’s face closer by his chin. He’s toying with him, parting his lips, breathing slowly. Oswald chuckles and tilts his head. They’re only a heartbeat away, waiting for the other to give up and surrender. Oswald sticks his tongue out, mocking him. The tip of his tongue touches Ed’s upper lip. Ed’s laugh is quiet and breathless, and Oswald pulls away.

He clears his throat, gesturing towards the screen.

“Oh,” Ed says.

“Oh.”

Ed peeks aside, his eyes flicks across the new messages.

“ _How long have you known each other?_ Well, I’ve known you since, uh, two thousand and...?”  
  
“The time my Hitler bangs ruled the Earth,” he points at the screen. “Don’t you fucking ask about it. Glaub mir, den willst du _nicht_ kennen.”

“You can speak German, I should’ve fallen for you right away,” Ed mutters. Oswald shrugs cheerfully, with a proud smirk on his lips. Ed reads the next one: “ _Is that the Riddler for real?_ ”

He pulls the glasses back on the bridge of his nose.

“Yes, I happen to be me. I simply can’t see a thing, the lens are dirty. That’s why-,” he pauses with a tiny moan as he hugs Oswald and pulls him onto his lap, “That’s why I keep this little one close.”

Oswald growls, fidgeting. He finds a comfortable position on Ed’s boney knees and crosses his legs. Ed nestles his jaw into the crook of Oswald’s neck. Oswald is playing with Ed’s fingers, entwined around his stomach.

“They want to know if you’ve blackmailed me to go out with you,” Ed says.

“Sure, I blackmailed you _hard_. Is that what the kids are calling it these days?”

Ed breathes a quick kiss on Oswald’s neck. He’s whispering into his ear:

“My cinnamon roll state is being questioned, it seems.”

“Jesus, finally.”

“What’s the point of that meme anyway?”

“That you’re an innocent cutiepie who can do no harm. Accurate, right?”

Ed humphs, offended, so Oswald reads the next question in a sharp voice.

“ _On a scale from 1 to 10, how would you rate your relationship (if you’re actually together)?_ ”

They answer at the same time, eyes dead.

“NC-17.”

“Eleven." 

Ed pulls Oswald closer, thrusting his hips up as he’s positioning himself. Oswald whimpers.

“I’m absolutely satisfied with him. We’ve got some things to work on, but we’re doing it together. Right, Ozzie?”

Oswald throws his head back, looking him deep in the eye. Ed’s hips start moving again, slowly, it’s impossible to notice on the screen. Oswald licks his lips.

“There’re like a lot of OMGs.”

“I don’t care.”

Ed’s hand falls over the belt of the rope, palming Oswald’s cock through the silk. It’s happening out of frame. Oswald gasps, feeling Ed’s lips brushing against his. Ed’s tongue forces itself into his mouth, kissing him hungrily. Oswald chuckles into the kiss, grabbing Ed by his half-dry locks.

“We’re gonna be so fucked,” Oswald breathes as he draws away. Ed grins.

“ _You_ are.”

“Sucker.”

“I don’t mind if I do.”

The screen changes, then goes dark. They’re no longer being recorded. Oswald seems happy about the cliffhanger they gave their audience, letting Ed rubbing him with painful little circles. He closes his eyes, panting.

“Will you be okay?” Ed whispers.

“Hah, yeah.”

“If you’re not, will you call me?”

“Yeah... _oh, yeah_.”  
  
“What time shall we go to your mother’s?”

Oswald tenses.

“Would you _please_ stop talking about my mother while you’re jerking me off?”

Ed hums, sinking his hand under the robe.

“First things first, then.”

 

Oswald clears himself up with a holey tissue. He’s standing up, leaning closer to the laptop. He flicks the touchpad with his free hand. The hollow screen paints his face with unhealthy, chrome lights.

“I have no idea what they’re gonna say about this.”

“I think we resolved all their doubts,” Ed says, leaning on his knees.

“The YouTube staff, I mean.”

He can feel Ed’s glance, burning him head to toe. He’s trying to analyze him again.

“You care too much about what others think about you.”

“Cause others give me money,” Oswald says, closing the laptop.

“By all means, reputation matters to me as well, then again-”

“Not now,” Oswald snaps. He adds in a soft voice: “if possible.”

Ed smiles idly.

“Come back here.”  


 

They’re listening to the storm, cuddled close in the armchair. Thunder murmurs and the video setup softly hums on standby. Flames crack in the fireplace.

Ed is warm. His face is buried in Oswald’s neck, every exhale a steady wave, raising him up. They create a rhythm without moving an inch, calm and even like the soft tapping of rain.  

“Did you know,” Ed mutters, “that there was a study published in the Elsevier Animal Behaviour journal according to which the social thermoregulation of emperor penguins…”  

“I hate penguins,” Oswald says, eyes closed.

“Emperor penguins,” Ed goes on, “in need of warmth join huddles, whereas other specimen, seeking to dissipate heat, break huddles apart. It’s very dynamic and one could say, individualistic. It seems like uh, teamwork, but actually, each and every one of them takes a decision based on their own personal benefit. And it keeps the whole thing working. How they take advantage.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Cuddling with you is exactly like this,” Ed yawns, pressing closer. “Being with you. We both seek warmth, for different reasons, we both have our... personal agenda, if you must. We take things from each other which we lack, have you noticed? We take and take and take. And there’s still so much left to give.”

“Take whatever you need. It’s okay.”   

“Why do you hate penguins?”

Oswald snorts.

“They’re birds who can’t fly. Fucking lame, if you ask me.”

“There are over forty species which can’t-”

“Eddie, you don’t need to tell _me._ But they’re not fucking ratites or domesticated fowls. They’re carnivores. Bergmann held a principle that the bigger the size of a species, or more accurately, the size of their heart, the colder their environment is. Not the most undisputable observation, but anyway. The penguins which _matter_ live in the shittiest place on the face of Earth. Like fucking damn horrible. They could rule it, you see, they could be kings and queens if only they could fly away from the seals and orcas and polar bears. But they can’t. They just wobble around like they owned the place, but as soon as a more powerful predator appears, they get wrecked.”    
  
Ed hums. Oswald feels like he talked too much; idly, he licks his lips. Ed asks:

“Why did you chose penguin to be your username if you hate them so much?”

Oswald laughs.

“Because I can’t fly away either.”

Ed’s arms around his waist tighten. Lightning flashes, and Oswald starts counting till he hears the thunder, an old habit from a lonely and boring childhood.

His fingertips tingle. He wants to check the comments under the safety of the storm, while all pain can be washed away. Gotham in a rainy day, oh, how he loved it in his teen years, just walking the streets with his umbrella - when he could still walk - he’d be dressed in black, going to the cemetery or to the docks - the streets would be empty, light caught in puddles.

He wouldn’t have to go alone anymore. The present is more appealing than his nostalgic past or online future, just being here with Ed.

Ten. Oswald folds his fingers, and thunder rumbles.

“Ed _Nygma_ ,” he muses. “How come you’re called that?”

“What do you mean?”

“Obviously it’s not your real name.”

Silence.

“Nashton,” Ed whispers, pronouncing it like one would curse or cast a spell. “Edward Nashton.”

“Nice to meet you.”

Ed kisses his neck, hurried, and Oswald groans as Ed starts getting up.

“You’re leaving?”

“Gotta, sorry. There’re still a few slides left and I want to wake up early. Should I leave my phone switched on?”

“Pretty please. You’re welcome to wait till the weather improves.”

“It won’t improve.”

Oswald leans onto the antique writing table, and watches Ed tucking in his shirt.   

“You cold, huh?”

“It’ll be cold outside.”

Oswald sighs.

“Whatever. Help yourself to an umbrella and a warmer jacket. I’ve got a shitton.”

Ed leans in, the tips of their noses briefly brushing.

“Thank you.”

“Anytime. Don’t do that again.”

Oswald leads the way to the vestibule and hands his biggest and heaviest leather jacket to Ed. It still doesn’t quite fit. Neither of them mind much.

“Try to catch some Zs, okay?” Ed says as he fails to zip in the jacket. “And I wouldn’t go online if I were you.”

“I don’t want to be left alone with my thoughts, thank you. I’ll handle whatever’s waiting for me. Comfy?”

Ed stretches out his arms. The sleeves roll halfway up his forearm.

“It’ll do. It’s nice. It smells of you.”

Oswald blinks and turns to the cast iron umbrella stand.

“You want one with a sword cane, or…”

“Still got a knife on me, as always.”

Oswald gets one anyway. He draws the hidden sword out and gracefully slices an invisible nobody, the clear sound of metal ringing in the glowing air. He nods to himself, swiftly sliding the sword back to the cane, and offers it to Ed.

“Take it. ”

Their fingers touch. It shouldn’t take Oswald’s breath away. Ed’s gaze is burning him.

“Thank you,” Ed repeats and leans in for a goodbye kiss. Oswald melts against his lips.  


 

Oswald carefully applies a nicotine patch, toothbrush in his mouth. Moody music booms from his phone, dropped into a glass to amplify the speakers. He rolls on black socks, clipping them to leather sock garters. Spits, wipes his mouth, and steps into his pants. He puts on a crisp, white shirt, and buttons up a double breasted purple waistcoat, complete with a modest bowtie, made of silk.  He refuses to wear a jacket. 

He combs his hair to the left. He takes his septum out. He’s busy removing his nailpolish when his phone buzzes. He reaches for it, cursing, and presses it to his shoulder.

“What?”

“I’m here.”

“Eddie, we’ve still got…” He glances at the vintage alarm clock. “Three minutes.”

“Could you sleep well?”

“Well enough.” He tosses the cotton ball to the trashcan. “What’s up? Are you nervous?”  

“Pleasantly excited, I guess.”

“Great. Gimme three more minutes.”

He hesitates before hanging up. Ed says:

“Take your time, cookie.”

Oswald hangs up.

He wobbles to his wardrobe, trying to decide between a pair of luxurious leather shoes which he polished first thing in the morning, and the boots he had on yesterday, kicked to the corner. He settles for the boots.

 

He activates the alarm, locks the door and the bolts, checks the security cams, and as he steps back, he can feel something rolling under his feet. He peeks under the mat. Ed left his lock pick set there.

Ed’s bowler hat just barely peeks out from behind a swarming sea of lilies. The lower half of his torso is obscured by a Tupperware cake taker. Oswald stops dead in his tracks and measures him, face blank.

“Mother’s gonna eat you up,” he says and heads to his moped car.  As he bends down to open the tiny trunk, he can feel Ed eyeing his ass.

The car, black and chic, is designed for two and possibly, maybe, a backpack for ants. Oswald tries his best to fit the bouquet in; Ed’s not helping. He’s virtually _queuing_ till he gets Oswald’s undivided attention. Practicalities imaginatively handled, Oswald shuts the truck, and Ed leans in for a kiss.

“Hello.”

“Hi. You gotta carry that cake in your lap.” A peep, and the doors open. “Try to fold yourself in, please.”

Ed chuckles, and as Oswald limps past him, he grabs his ass and squeezes. It feels more like an experiment than a challenge, and Oswald has his mind on so many different things that he doesn’t even react to it.

They settle down in the red leather chairs, and as Oswald fumbles with the sherwood dash kit, Ed clears his throat:

“You should wear suits more often, they…” 

“Don’t say it.”

“...suit you.”

“Goddamnit, Eddie,” Oswald sighs, and starts the car. He looks back behind his shoulders and backs the car into the Honda parking behind them. “That’ll show’em,” he mutters.

They hit the road. Ed leans onto the window, deep in thought.  

“I used to wear my Sunday best quite regularly,” Oswald breaks the silence.

“Pity I didn’t know you then.”

“Please. We would’ve hated each other’s guts.”

“True that.” Ed’s gaze roams over him. “Still. You look dashing. That sweet little ass of yours always gives me second thoughts. How do you feel about spanking? ”

Oswald opens his mouth to answer, when his disabled parking badge cheerfully dangling on the rear mirror catches his eyes. He tears it off and shoves it to the glove box with such force that he nearly breaks his knuckles. Hissing, he starts waving his throbbing hand. Ed gently takes hold of his wrist. Oswald expects him to kiss the booboo better, but Ed licks it, and licks it again, tongue hot and wet.

Oswald starts questioning whether they’ll reach his mother’s place without a major accident.

“Lysozyme,” Ed explains, and squinting, he surveys the scars. “See, they’re barely bleeding.”

“Behold the Miracle Doctor.”

“Pathologist,” Ed corrects him automatically.

They stop by the red lights. Smoke and smog hovers over the busy streets.

“About that.”

“Yeah?”

“Please don’t tell that to mother. She hates the police.”

“I’ll hardly work with the police. Are you ashamed of me?”

“It’s not that. As far as she’s concerned, I’m still at uni, on a good scholarship, and my YouTube channel is part of a series we’re making in drama class.  I work in the night-shift at the Opera House as the right hand of the chief executive.” The lights turn green. “Also, I’m saving my most precious gift for my wedding night.”

There’s silence, the engine softly humming. Ed clicks his tongue.

“I see.”

“Whatever you do, never _ever_ mention Anschluss, the 1848 revolution of Hungary, the countries of Russia and Prussia, communism, the eating disorder of Elizabeth of Wittelsbach, the Krone as a currency being anything but fucking amazing, crosets, Turkish delight, the S-Bahn network, bell peppers, women, the Beatles, Eurovision, wigs _and_ Whigs, drugs, ATV, catholics, cognac, democracy, nylon tights, Utah and Madonna. The singer.”  

Ed’s mouth hangs open. With considerable dignity, he says:

“I gather your mum’s European.”

“Oh, honey. You’ve got no idea.”

Ed sniffs and adjusts his collar.

“You know what?”

“What?”

“I’m quite a becoming gentleman. I’ll make her like me.”

“I’m sure she’ll like you,” Oswald sings.

“Really? What if she won’t?”

“We’ll see.”

“Tell her I can provide for you financially, isn’t that’s what parents want to hear?”

“I appreciate the irony, but you _could_ actually make a living with your credit card fraud.”

“The more you take, the more visible you become. How did you know I was… involved?”

Oswald looks at him.

“I’ve seen your wallet. It’s packed with them. I find it adorable, actually. You could just hack them, must be way easier than identity theft.”

“Please watch the road?”

Sirens wail. The fog is illuminated by red and blue. Oswald dramatically sighs:

“That’s the end of it, Eddie, you’re found out.”

“Ha-ha. Told you to watch the road.”

The GCPD vehicle switches on its index, and Oswald pulls over with a tight frown.  He waits for the officer, jaw clenched, staring straight ahead of him. His face lights up as soon as the officer knocks on the window; he rolls down the window and leans into the personal space of the poor fellow, gripping the wheel.

“Good morning sir, I’m so sorry, w-was I driving too fast?”

“And your fog lamps are off.”

“Such a clumsy mistake,” Oswald babbles. “I assure you it won’t happen ever again.  We’re rushing to my mother’s, you see, Sunday lunch… it might be the last, she’s so terribly sick.”

“I’m gonna need some ID.”

“Right away, right away,” Oswald mutters, fumbling with the glove box. Ed is watching him, eyes round. Oswald gets hold of his wallet and takes out a hundred. He hands it to the cop, touching his hand with a careful caress.

“It’s an old picture,” he says, indicating Benjamin Franklin. The cop snorts.

“Got a more recent one?”

Oswald adds another hundred. The officer nods.

“Yeah, I can see the resemblance. Take care.” He pats the door. “Fog lamp.”

Oswald chuckles, waves goodbye, then pushes the gas pedal with all his might.

“Eat my entire ass.”

 

Oswald knocks, waits two seconds, then bangs his fist against the door. There’s rustling and soft mumbling and the door swings open. Gertrud embraces him tightly.

“My darling Oswald!” she cries, and Oswald hugs her, burying his face into her soft hair. She smells of baby powder and lavender, soothing, silky. Oswald can’t help but cling to her.

“I’ve missed you,” he whispers, “I’ve missed you so, so much. Let me look at you.” He touches her face with his free hand, holding the cake taker in the other. Gertrud grins, casting her eyes down. “You’re the fairest of them all,” Oswald states, and gives her a peck on her lips. He steps back and solemnly gestures towards Ed. “Let me introduce you to my significant other.”

“Pleasure,” Ed snaps and almost tosses the bouquet to Gertrud.

“Ah, how wonderful! God brought you here, darling, come inside our home.”

Ed follows her, frowning. Oswald clears his throat. Ed realizes his mistake and takes off his shoes. Meanwhile Gertrud hugs the bouquet to her chest and inhales its fresh smell.

“How did you knew lilies are my favourites?” She lets out an enchanted sigh. “Such relief that Oswald would bring home a nice boy like this! You’re unlike that ghastly girl, that vulgar lassie of his!”

“Barbara and I never dated, I’m gay, I shouldn’t have invited her to a sleepover,” Oswald rolls his eyes, voice flat with the boredom of a recurring argument. He settles the cake taker on the table.

Gertrud hugs the lilies closer, as if she was protecting them from the cruelty of reality.

“In the same bed! So not decent! Horrible girls are hunting for husbands out there!”

“We’ll watch out,” Ed assures her, blinking rapidly. Gertrud rushes to him, sweeping through the dingy pastel apartment.

“My Oswald tells me you’re doctor, is that true?”

“I’m a med student. Erhm, doctor in training?”

“What’s for lunch?” Oswald asks, spreading out on a puffy chair. He notices some semi-stale pralinés on a glass plate and takes one between his fingers.

“No, no, dessert comes after lunch!”

“I’m just looking.”

As soon as Gertrud turns her back, he chows it down, and munching, stares at Ed.

_Don’t tell her._

Gertrud fetches a porcelain vase, filling it with the lilies. Ed takes a seat facing Oswald, back straight, shoulders square.

His mouth is still slightly open.

Gertrud sets the vase in the middle of the crowded table; there’re sewing kits in cookie tins, bonbons, a half-finished embroidery, dirty teacups and a bunch of sheet music.

“There’s goulash and chicken paprikash and kaiserschmarrn.” She wags her fingers at Oswald. “Chocolate comes after!”

Oswald holds up his hands, innocent, and Gertrud heads to the oven. Ed swallows back a grin and stands up:

“May I help you, Mrs. Cobblepot?”

“Kapelput,” Gertrud corrects him as she grabs a kitchen towel. “You’re our guest, just sit-sit, I can handle it, it’s not too much.”

Ed is half sitting, half standing, suddenly grabbing the edge of the table.

“ _Kapelput_ ,” he repeats, and beams. Oswald stares at him, worried. Gertrud comes in with a dish half her size.  

“That’s the name of my family, but we made it sounding American so no one will think ill of Oswald.” She mouths: “We lost the war.”

Ed settles down, smiling at Oswald briefly, who’s still staring at him.

“May I ask where do you originate from?”

“Neustadt, that’s in…”

“Austria,” Ed finishes, awed. Gertrud takes his plate and pours steaming red soup into it.

“You know this. My Oswald was born in Gotham, he’s a proper American citizen, but our family overseas is big, very big, and very old, we’re aristocrats, you know.” She hands him the plate. “The yankees may be rich, but they’re not nobles, you see. Oswald is.”    

“Ed’s from Ireland,” Oswald says. Ed looks at him, surprised.

“I never told…”

“I’m improvising,” Oswald whispers. Gertrud pours some soup for Oswald and hums.

“The Irish are smart, yes, and tall and handsome, but the whole lot is filthy catholic.”

“Not my family,” Ed chimes in. “We’re anabaptists? That’s why we had to leave the country.”

Oswald looks impressed. Gertrud snorts.

“Anything but those popists! Why, nothing beats a good protestant upbringing, they teached me firmly to work hard and be kind. I didn’t have to teach Oswald; he was always good.” She kisses his forehead. “Eat, my children.” She settles down with a whoosh of her skirt, lifts her spoon pinky up, and as if she just remembered something, points it to Ed. “The Irish also drink!”

“Not a drop,” Ed swears.

“The soup is heavenly,” Oswald chimes in, and Ed quickly joins in:

“Yummy!”

Their gazes lock. Ed raises up an eyebrow, feet finding Oswald’s under the table. He starts caressing Oswald’s ankle, and he lets him, coyly smirking.

Gertrud drops her spoon.

“It’s too salty,” she heaves. “Very salty!” She grabs her hair and starts pulling it, face twisted in horror. Oswald jumps to his feet, hastily wiping his mouth with his hand and kneels down to Gertrud.

“Look at me,” he says softly. He gets hold of her wrists, delicately. “The soup is good.”

Gertrud shakes her head.

“It’s too salty,” she says, voice breaking. She’s shaking. “Please forgive me.”

The smell of lilies fills everything.  

Gertrud’s eyes are unfocused.

 

An early memory: Gertrud was standing in the kitchen, surrounded by broken glass. She was holding up her hands, staring at them, and as Oswald, barely seven, rushed to her, he cut his bare feet. He cried out in pain, but Getrude didn’t hear him. She kept repeating:

“It was an accident. I didn’t mean to. I’m so sorry I’m sorry so sorry it was an accident, you must believe me it was an accident!”

 

Ed is observing them, head tilted. From the corner of his eyes, Oswald can see him opening the cake taker.

He lifts off the lid and sets it aside.

Gertrud is still muttering and trembling.

Ed gets the porcelain salt shaker, holds it above the beautiful cake he made, tips it to the side one, two, three times, then puts the lid back on.

Oswald hugs his mother closer.

“Everyone makes mistakes. It’s okay,” he tells her. He looks up at Ed, grateful and overwhelmed.

 

They’re sitting in the living room, sipping sour wine. Oswald is allowed to have about three ounces; Ed’s glass is nearly flowing over. Oswald is seated in the middle, Gertrud resting her head on his shoulder, and Ed holding his free hand.

The lights are dim and silky. Gertrud watches the wine sprinkling in her lipstick stained glass, mezmerised. Ed breaks the momentary silence with a neutral question:

“May I ask what do you do, Mrs. Kapelput?”

“Decent ladies don’t go working,” Gertrud murmurs, her head rolling to Oswald’s chest.  “It’s the only rule of decency Grace Van Dahl ever learned.”

“Mother,” Oswald whispers, but Gertrud is already tipsy.

“Oh, I know her type; she’s a _widow_. Going from one rich husband to the next, the older, the better, but she’s oh so young and pretty! Well she won’t be young forever, mark my words, and what will she do then? Beauty is not for always.”

“You’re still beautiful,” Oswald tells her earnestly. She just scoffs, waving him away.

“Stop it, you silver-tongued little fiend. All men are so fools! I break up with his father _once_ , and he goes away, gives me ‘space,’ and returns with that detestable wench and her spawns from hell years and years later.”

Ed blinks, turning to Oswald.

“I gather you have siblings, then?”

“It’s complicated,” Oswald mutters, and Gertrud adds:

“They’re not your blood, so they’re not your family, whatever he says. When were they when you needed them the most? When we had nothing but my coupons to eat, couldn’t go to the opera, to a holiday, no nothing.”

She gulps down her leftover wine. She clears her throat as she sets the empty glass on the coffee table. Oswald pulls up his legs, hugging them. Ed pulls him closer with his left, and Oswald lets his head rest on his shoulder. Gertrud settles back on the couch.

“What your father does?” she asks, looking at the ceiling, and Ed asks back, confused:

“My father?”

“Certainly not his! Oh, he’s such a hotshot, he got Oswald into this horrible high school, so expensive, so elite, said it’s the best, and look what they done to his poor leg…”

Ed spills his wine. He hisses, and looks down to his spoiled maroon shirt.

“Clumsy! Mrs. Kapelput, where can I find the bathroom?”

“Ah, it’s the first door to the left.”

“Thank you.” Ed stands and heads towards it, head hung, steps quick. Oswald’s eyes follow him.

“Such a proper boy you found,” Gertrud purrs. “Does he treat you well?”

“He does,” Oswald says. “He loves me very much.” He averts his gaze, blinking rapidly. Gertrud caresses his face, smiling serenely, then slides her fingers under his chin.

“What’s this? You had an accident?”

“It’s nothing.”

Oswald’s neck is coloured with bruises, bite marks and scratches. Gertrud pokes at a huge hickey.

“I’ll get the Betadine and some bandage strips, you wait here.”

“It doesn’t hurt. Leave it.”

“But they’re so ugly!”

Oswald leans back.  
  
“Ed is very important to me,” he says slowly. Gertrud bites her lips.

“You two will be able to adopt kids, yes?”

“But we won’t, okay?” Oswald’s voice is faint. Gertrud’s fingers are still on his neck, trembling, delicate. Oswald gets hold of them and kisses his mother’s diamond ring.

“A child is the most beautiful thing in life,” Gertrud says. “You love them, no matter what, and your love is so strong and pure and nice, you want nothing but what’s best for them, and you no longer care for your own life but theirs. They’re the most important. If you could find a girl like Ed… or even with Ed, there are options…”

“No.” Oswald caresses her hand with his thumb and leans down to kiss her cheeks. Gertrud  closes her eyes, inhaling deeply. “I’ll be right back.

 

He finds Ed in his old room, lying on the frilly sheets. The baby blue wallpaper with fat little angels is covered with posters of half naked singers, records and printed paintings by Egon Schiele, Velázquez, Rembrandt, Bouguereau and Spaendonck, grotesque still-lifes, renaissance nightmares and drawings from the middle ages. Oswald leans on the doorframe, silent, but Ed can feel his presence. 

“You shot your early videos here,” he says, voice hoarse. Oswald smirks.

“I lived here for twenty-one years. Everything’s how I left it.” He limps in, tiptoeing. One of the deck tiles squeaks under his feet. Ed squints and watches Oswald lift it.

Oswald gets out some old issues of Vogue and several Burberry cataloges. He hands them to Ed, who leafs through the first one, baffled.

“I don’t understand.”

“What do you think I used them for? Gay magazines and everything else either had twinks or muscle men. I like lanky guys with good cheekbones.” After a beat, he specifies: “and dark eyes. Like you. And your kind.”  

The next issue opens at a photoshoot, featuring a model wearing glasses, ears sticking out, smile taunt. Ed grins and holds it up.

Oswald’s eyes are glistering. He manages to say:

“You know… you are the only one I’ve ever brought here.

 

The wheels glide over the curved road. Neither of them say a word. The wipers screech on the windshield, swiping off the acid raindrops. Even if Ed notices that Oswald drives on the wrong route, he doesn’t seem to care. He sticks his forehead to the icy window, clinging to the leftovers of the cake. Oswald peeks at him from time to time, without moving his head. The neon lights break on Ed’s glasses. 

They reach a pier. The air is filled with heavy, salty scents, oil, damp trees and fresh haze. Oswald slows the car down, stomping on the break. They stop with a soft jolt.

The other shore is beyond reach. 

Oswald can taste Ed’s silence. It’s sorrow on his tongue. All the noises feel harsh and humbling, the metallic sighs of ships, the faraway roars of traffic, and the pounding rain. He’s waiting for Ed to finally speak up, to burst out, to wipe away this fathomless feeling. Every word he’s swallowing back feels like cold stones in Oswald’s stomach.

He doesn’t understand what the fuck had happened. Ed seemed just fine, chattering and waving Gertrud goodbye, and now he’s retired into his cold shell.

 _Stop it_ , Oswald wants to shout at him. _Say something. Say something. Say something._  
  
“Say something.”  
  
“Like what?”  
  
Oswald shrugs, stroking the wheel. He entwines his fingers, leaning his chin on them.

“Like whatever. Anything you want to.”

Ed swallows, hard and dry. He reaches into his pocket, dragging out a crumpled box of cigarettes. He pulls one out, offering it to Oswald.

“You didn’t bring yours,” he croaks. Oswald reaches out, making Ed fidget when their fingers touch. Ed suddenly heaves: “Your mother loves you very much.”

“She likes you too. I could tell.”

Ed hums. Flame flickers as they impulsively lean closer to each other, lighting the cigarettes. 

Ed takes a deep breath, choking on the fume, exhaling through his nose. The tiny cabin is soon filled with vanilla haze, sticking to the windows, covering their faces.

Oswald rubs his cheek, frustrated. He scrapes on the player's buttons to break the silence with a _Sisters of Mercy_ mix. The loudspeakers snap and Ed leans back on the seat, head lolling back.

The rain seems to whist.

Oswald clenches his jaw. Ed is grinning, sliding his tongue through his parched lips. He takes his glasses off and tosses them onto the glove compartment. The frame tats and Oswald quivers.

Ed’s voice is tuneless and deep as he starts speaking.

“It’s been a long day. You must be tired, Ozzie. You don’t have to do this. Take me home. Take leave. Kiss me goodbye and tell me that you’ll see me later. I’m going to be okay.”

“Fuck you,” Oswald whispers, glancing at Ed’s faint profile. “I’m _not_ gonna leave you now, okay?”

He starts flinging, tearing the seatbelt off his chest, kicking the door open, turning the volume up. The song is rattling and beating. Oswald bends his spine to peak inside the car, cigarette in hand. Ed’s eyes find his.

“Come.”  
  
“Where?”  
  
“Come with me.”

 

Starlight sparkles on the surface, the waves rippling softly. A steam boat slides through the horizon.

Oswald waddles on until he reaches the end of the pier. Ed follows him with slow, hesitating steps. His bowler hat sits crooked on his head. It’s spotty from the rain, just like the smoking paper in his mouth.

Oswald sits down on a ferroconcrete pillar, taking a sharp breath. The heavy taste of oil and salt and tobacco settles on his teeth.

He stares up at Ed. He’s standing close - not too close -, his eyes cling to the smoky rain clouds, unfocused.

Oswald says:

“I come here often. Alone. It’s soothing.”

“Why?”

Oswald shrugs, staring into the vibrant water.

“I’ve almost drowned here. Once.”

“Oh.” Ed’s voice is dull, but his features twitch.

“It helps me to remember that I’ve survived.”

Ed doesn’t reply. Oswald goes on:

“Have you ever tried to kill yourself?”

“No,” A pause. “But I’ve tried to kill someone else.”  
  
“Tell me about it.”

Ed blinks rapidly. He mumbles:  
  
“Your mother loves you very much.”  
  
“Yeah. We’ve talked about that.”

“Have we?” Ed asks, chuckling. He throws his head back. His face is lit with burning light. “Yes, we have. I’ve almost forgot. I’ve forgotten my mother. I should’ve known her, I think. I could’ve known her. We might cross each other on the streets one day and I’ll have forgotten her again.”

“What happened?”

“She left. She left when I was little. My father said it was all my fault.” Ed takes a drag of the soggy cigarette. He goes on, voice hasty and raw: “He said it’s been my fault because I’ve been a dirty liar. A cheater. A fraud. That I’d ruined his life.” He clears his throat. “I think he loved her. It’s hard to tell, though. It’s hard to figure it out. If I knew he didn’t, it would be much easier. I could love her. If my father hated her, my mom must’ve been smart, smarter than me to leave him. I should’ve left earlier. I’ve waited too long. Way too long. Till the very end.”

Ed’s voice dries up. His eyes are cloudy as he’s pondering, lips curled. His glance suddenly beams. He starts to crack up.

“Oh dear. The night I stole his car. What did he say, I wonder? Now you see me, now you don’t. Imagine that. He cared about it so much, he kept talking to it, pampering it. I took it away from him. I’ve pillaged. I’ve robbed. I’m a fucking brat.”

Ed sways, throwing the cigarette into the water. The burn filter wobbles on the waves just like his fading laughter.

Oswald reaches out to him, caressing his knuckle with soft finger pads. Ed shivers but doesn’t draw away. Oswald takes his hand, pulling him closer, captivating Ed’s eyes until he looks at him.

Ed’s teeth are chattering, his head falling.

Oswald breathes:

“Is this who you really are, Ed Nashton?”

Ed snorts, tipping his hat feebly.

“ _Nice to meet you_ ,” he quotes Oswald, smiling weakly. “I’m not the one you deserve.”

Oswald’s eyes darken. He scrambles up, hanging on to Ed’s hand. He steps close.

“No,” he says coldly. “Don’t you ever say that to me.”

“Don’t feel responsible. It’s a burden.”

“Stop telling me what to do, fucker,” Oswald rumbles. He sinks his nails into Ed’s waist, pulling him closer. “I want you. The whole package. Everything you have to offer. You did good, okay? Your father didn’t understand you, not like I do. _He_ didn’t deserve _you_. Do you think I’m the fucking same?”

Ed looks down, shaking his head. He opens his mouth, but Oswald doesn’t let him talk.

He growls:

“Do you really think I’m the fucking same?” Oswald throws his head back, eyes burning. He tiptoes, grabbing Ed’s collar, pulling him down. He spits into his face: “I love you.”

Oswald bites into Ed’s lower lip, painfully, forcing him to part his lips. Oswald kisses him. It’s desperate and desirous and harsh.

Ed’s unable to move at first, unable to kiss back. The wind blows a lap of rain into his face, snapping at his hair and he finally - finally - grabs Oswald’s hips, snatching him up. Oswald hugs his neck with his arms, and his waist with his thighs.

Ed pants into his mouth before kissing him again.

They’re standing in the circle of the car’s spotlight. Gotham floats around them, foggy and starry and fulgurant, and the thunder rolls in.

 

Ed is lying on the bed, naked, thighs spread, illuminated by candles. He’s handcuffed behind his back. The storm rages on, the curtains of the bed fluttering and flapping. The windows are slightly ajar, the smell of heavy rain washing in with loud waves.

Oswald is standing in the door, still wearing his wet clothes. His hair is a mess and he put the septum back in. Also, he’s holding a tailed whip.

Ed is watching him with dilated pupils and chest heaving. Oswald comes closer, the tiles creaking under his uneven steps.

“Let me tell you what’s going to happen, Eddie.”

He’s idly playing with the cat o’ nine, tickling his palm with the tails.

“I will use this on you,” he says. “It’s not for punishment, so you won’t need to count aloud, and since it’s your first time, I won’t hit you very hard.”

“Please do hit me hard,” Ed mumbles. Oswald just tsks, and having reached the bed, gently lays the whip on Ed’s stomach. He starts to undress himself and sees Ed’s abdomen tremble.

“Heavier than expected? It’s _going to_ hurt.” He tosses the bowtie aside and sets to unbutton his soaked waistcoat.  “Get familiar with it. You’re gonna come just from being whipped.” He opens his shirt. “I won’t penetrate you till you’re on the verge, till you’re a shivering fucking mess. Agreed?”

“Absolutely.”

“You’re not tied, so you may move around however you like. I don’t want rules or a full-on fucking pep talk.” He licks his lips. “I want you. Comfortable?”

Ed tests the handcuffs and nods slightly.

“Affirmative.”

“Any questions?”

“Not really.”

Oswald pulls down his pants and turns his back as he gets rid of the briefs. Ed mutters softly:

“Leave the sock garters on, please.”

Oswald looks at him behind his shoulders.

“Another kink?”

“Not particularly. You just look smashing wearing them.”

Oswald scoffs. Ed tilts his head, sinking into the silky pile of pillows. His hair sticks to his forehead.

“Ooh, you’re blushing,” he sings.

“Shut it. Roll to your stomach.”

Ed arches his brows, and impatient, Oswald snatches the whip. Ed complies, finally, and Oswald kneels behind him.

The flames cast long shadows on Ed’s skin. Oswald bites his lips and follows a line with his blunt nails. Ed shudders.

“Hush. It’s not yet it.”

He grabs the whip, holds it up above Ed’s back, and lets the tails softly caress Ed’s taut shoulders, the valley between the arch of his scapulas. He’s mezmerised by the bending arms, veins visible, the slender wrists held by the handcuffs. He trails them with the whip, stopping by the curve of his ass, considering before he’d slide the tails between his thighs.  

Ed lets out an impatient whimper.

“Lift your hips for me.”

Oswald moves the thong over his shoulder, lashing at the air experimentally, careful not to knock off the candles. There’s a satisfying, cracking sound.

He strikes Ed.

Ed cries out, hoarse and deep. Angry red lines form on his ass, skin broken and already swollen. Oswald leans down, following the pulsing scars with the tip of his tongue, lapping them good and clean.

“Again,” Ed breathes. “Please, I’m ready.”

The next strike is more forceful; Oswald lets out a cheerful shout, and Ed yells, head lolling back. He looks at Oswald from behind his shoulders, and with gazes locked, Oswald tugs at the handle, the tails curling around Ed’s thighs, biting into the tender skin. Ed sobs with pleasure, thrusting his hips back.

“Hit me again,” he asks.

“Don’t get greedy,” Oswald says, patting his ass with his free hand. “You won’t get more than fifteen today.” He chuckles. “Look at you, you beautiful bitch. You’re just getting started.”

Ed’s fists are trembling in the handcuffs. His back is shiny either with rain or sweat. Oswald inches closer, and gets hold of his own half-hard cock just to smear some salty precome over the fresh scars on Ed’s ass. Ed moans, thrusting against him, starved for friction and cheeks clenching with sweet pain. Oswald draws back, grabbing and kneading the sensitive flesh. He spits into his palm and spanks Ed, one, two, three slaps, before he’d get hold of the whip again.

“I’m so honoured,” he says, “to be the first one to humiliate you this much.”

 

When Oswald thrusts in, finally, it only takes a few seconds, in and out and in, and Ed cries out, face buried in the pillows, a muffled, dry shout. 

Oswald swallows.

Ed is spread underneath him on the slightly creaking mattress, hands still cuffed, the marks of ultimate trust a feverish scarlet on his ass. He’s unbearably beautiful in that moment, and Oswald wants to see him, all of him.

“Roll over,” he orders, sliding some pillows under Ed’s back and lifting his legs to his shoulder. This position is a bit challenging, but Oswald doesn’t mind it, feverish with the desire to see Ed’s face.

Ed’s eyes are half closed, expression awed and blissful. Oswald sinks back into the welcoming, tight heat. Ed gasps, and bites his lips, his clouded glance urging him, _do it, do it, do it_. Oswald’s heart beats all too fast.

There’s only the wet sounds of flesh and the faraway thunder. Oswald is panting, out of breath, and Ed moans, relaxed and pleased. The roll of his hips is idle, lazy, while Oswald is desperately fast, chasing after his release; still, they find a common rhythm, and Oswald has to close his eyes because it’s too much.

“Look at me,” Ed asks him. Oswald can’t help himself; he’s not one to smile during fucking, but now, he _beams_.

 

Oswald strained a few muscles here and there, and his knees hurt like hell as he wobbles to the bathroom to fetch a wet towel and a bottle of gel. 

Ed is lying on his stomach again. The air smells of rain and sex, electrifying.

Oswald puts on a long, cozy shirt against the chill, and then settles next to Ed. He cleans him up the best he can, then gently rubs the gel over his scars.

“Ouch,” Ed observes.  

“Still in one piece?” Oswald asks him, helping him out of the handcuffs.  Ed cracks his wrists in mild disbelief, then looks up at Oswald.

“This was… Whoa.”

“You don’t need to comment, I was present.”  The words don’t have any edge. He touches the scars again, and Ed hisses. “Are you free tomorrow?”

“When am I ever? As a matter of fact, I should probably sleep in my own bed today, or more precisely, next to a pile of my by-then completed assignments, your name upon my lips a dying wish.” He peeks at him, sleepy. “Forever longing after you, even when you’re here with me.”   

“Whatever you do, _don’t_ sleep on your back in the foreseeable future. I think I’ve ruined your perfect little ass.”

“Proud of yourself?”

“Hell yeah.”   

“The scars will heal, eventually.”

Oswald shrugs.

“We can always make new ones.”

He can’t remember how their shared future became a fact. Ed wiggles closer and rests his head in Oswald’s lap. Oswald starts stroking his hair with his clean hand, and all cuddled up, Ed mumbles:

“I want you to mark me.”

“Come again?”

“I want something… permanent. Something which won’t just disappear. I want you to burn me.”

Oswald’s hand freezes.

“Seriously?”

“Yeah,” Ed says, staring at the still burning candles. “I won’t regret it. Not you, not us, not what happened tonight. I want it to be like a journal entry, reminding me who I was in this precise moment, and who you were. Forever. Would you do it for me?”

Oswald shivers.

“Would you ask?”

Ed turns to him, looking up from his lap.

“Please mark me, Ozzie. Burn me with what you told me, that you loved me, even if by tomorrow you won’t mean it. I know that tonight, you do love me. So please burn me.” He grins. “This time for _real_.”

Oswald glances at the nearest line of candles. They’re dripping with hot wax. He looks back at Ed, his eyes gleaming, smile bright with expectations.

“If I do it, you’ll need to do it as well.”

“I don’t insist.”

“But you feel the same. You love me so much it hurts, yeah? So it’s only fair.”  

He reaches for a candle, almost nonchalant. Ed sits up, slowly, and the candle feels absurdly heavy, as if any minute Oswald would drop it.

“Where do you want it?”

“Above the heart, maybe?”

“Okay. Uhh, fine by me. Lean closer.”

He tips the long candle forward. He’s not sure whether it’ll work, whether the flame will hold for long enough. Ed kisses him, and he can hear something _sizzling_ as he closes his eyes.  It’s dizzying but fantastic. Ed’s tongue is cold and nice, every lap and little wet gasp grateful, insistent, and Oswald just loses himself into it, not thinking anything.   

It’s okay. It’s okay.

When he opens his eyes and stares at Ed’s chest, the wound seems surprisingly small, but deep and ragged and like the flesh just _melted_ . Oswald’s mind is still blank.

“Where do you want yours?”

“Same place.”

“And are you sure you want it? It’s mildly agonizing.”

“Same place,” Oswald repeats, and lifts up his shirt.

The candle’s flame had gone out. Ed relights it.

“Think about ice-fields and penguins.”

“Haha, suck my dick.”

“Kiss me.”

Oswald obliges, and the fire bites into his skin. The pain is… it’s everything. It fills him completely, but he still manages to kiss Ed, to find comfort in the calming caress of his lips.

“Are you okay?” Ed asks him, pulling away. He peeks at the wound, mouth spit-wet and slightly open. “Whoa, Ozzie,” he breathes, reaching out and touching his chest. Oswald wants to press against his all-too-careful fingers around the wound, to make him tear him open. He doesn’t dare to move an inch. “It’s fascinating,” Ed says, and reaches for the gel.

It’s cooling and comforting.  Ed is pulling him back to reality, touch by touch, and Oswald feels fragile but _valuable_ at the same time, as if Ed was restoring some sacred artifact.

“You’re fascinating,” Ed tells him, meeting his glance. “Did you know that?”

Oswald is breathing heavily, nostrils flaring. He’d like to answer, but he can’t find his voice somehow. He reaches out, spreading his fingers over the ruined flesh on Ed’s chest.  

“Mine,” he mutters. Ed leans in and kisses his forehead. Oswald closes his eyes.

 

There’s something in the way Ed walks. Instead of his usual, quick little steps and crouched shoulders, he walks as someone would walk on a rope, minding his posture and balance. He reaches the pile of his clothes and grunts as he leans down to gather them.

Oswald is watching him suffer in the mellow moonlight. He’s playing with Ed’s glasses, still lying in bed. He uses it as a spyglass, bringing Ed’s silhouette closer as the man tries his best to put on his tartan briefs. The marks from the whip are positively _gleaming._

“Want a ride home?”

“No, thanks. I better go by subway, I guess.”

“Fancy some standing?”

“Well, yes.”

Ed adjusts his shirt and looks around in search for his glasses. Oswald bites at their temples. Ed lets out a long sigh and comes back to him.

“What am I? An idiot.”

“It’s been an eventful day, don’t be surprised if your head’s all over the place.” He gives the glasses back with a polite smile. Ed pinches the bridge.

“Thankies.” Then he adds with the same breath: “I hate leaving you.”

Oswald blinks.

“I’d hope so, but hey, life and things.” He clears his throat. “Anyway, text me whether you got to deal some organs on your way home.”  

“Wouldn’t be the first time.” Ed winks and gets his belt.

“See? You’ve already got experience. You’ll be super rich.”

“I’ll buy you a unicorn,” Ed says and pulls him in for a brief goodbye kiss. Before he pulls away, he glances at the burnt scar, satisfied. The lenses of his glasses flash.  
  
“Should I walk you to the door? Seeing that I’m currently lacking a unicorn and can’t escort you on horseback, or unicornback, or whatever.”

“I won’t be able to leave if you come with me. Stay here.” He kisses him again. “I won’t see you tomorrow. I want to remember you like this, in bed, waiting for me. It’s such an exquisite sight. I wish I could crawl right back and hug you silly, kissing your hair, your neck, each and every one of your freckles, and watch you fall asleep.”  
  
“You said something about not being able to leave.”

“How could I ever?” Ed whispers.

But he does. A few more whispers, about ten or eleven of those careful steps, the door of the bedroom creaks, and it happens, just like that.

No more Ed.  

At first, Oswald thinks it’s just melancholy, the simple and null sorrow of letting Ed go. But now the room is empty and the feeling is still scratching him. There’s something in the sweaty air that’s holding onto his bones and there’s the drumming discomfort, liquid in his veins.

He reaches out to open the windows, letting the wind blow in. Petrichor floods the room. Oswald squats on his side of the bed, hunting for cigarettes and a lighter in the chaos of the night stand. He finds matchsticks only, dispersed on the bottom. He tsks.

His hands are shaking as the tries to light the first one. It breaks. The second one too.

He succeeds for the third time. Flame flickers and Oswald leans in with the cigarette between his lips. He takes a deep drag, staring at the stick in his hand absently.

The flame starts to grow, devouring the stick with furious flickers. It reaches Oswald’s fingers, licking them, and Oswald doesn’t seem to care. He waits a breathless moment before blowing it out and throwing it out of the window. The stick tats on the bars of the balcony.

It left a burned scent behind. Oswald’s scar responds to it with itching pain. He can still feel his skin drawing, heat throbbing on the lacy edges of flesh. The gel is melting on the scar, sticking to Oswald’s shirt every time he moves.

He grabs his shirt by the back and tears it off. The cigarette is stuck between his teeth, ash falling into the scar. Oswald crinkles the shirt and smacks it into the corner. He has goosebumps all over his spine and chest, freckling his cut, bitten skin.

Oswald lets out a growl, standing up, dragging himself to his leather chair. There’s Ed’s denim jacket on the armrest, forgotten. Oswald doesn’t touch it.

The laptop’s screen is achingly vivid. Oswald squints, spying the screen. He’s on his own YouTube Channel. He doesn’t care about that. He clicks the new tab to open Ed’s channel, and there it is: their Q&A with the thumbnail Oswald edited for him. He clicks on it.

They’ve reached 200.000 views which might be more than what all of Ed’s videos had achieved together.

 

 **ALL COMMENTS** (221)  
Top comments

 **Lark** 1 day ago

Wait what-  
What’s happening  
Fuck.  
Reply + 169

 **raven.** 18 hours ago

@Lark same. i saw the gifs but i hoped they’d be manips or something. i give up, it got worse

Reply + 113 

 **CRiver** 16 hours ago

eeehhhh???? i mean im happy for u guys n all but that’s like, sick? pranking us is fine but i hope you dont aCTUALLY have a relationship like that cuz it doesn’t seem healthy tbh??? are those cuts real??? im worried?????,,,??,?  
ps when will penguin post a new vid?

Reply + 82

Show more ˇ 

 **carmichaL** 8 hours ago

at least you guys stopped whining about the r1ddl3r, that’s something. it’s obvious he can hold his ground. anyways, they date whoever they want, it’s cleary not noncon so tumblr can fuck itself. also, i suggest you don’t try to follow anything. i’m not even trying to.  
Reply + 75 

 **tiny_** 19 minutes ago

WE ARE SAILING !! !!!!!! Moar collabs please!! *--* #p3ngu1n <3 <3 @LynN  
Reply + 54

 **LynN** 18 minutes ago

@tiny_ 2:34 awwww you saw that? tell me someone made a gif of that look! i’m dyinggg  
Reply

 **BOSSWORTH** 11 minutes ago

Congrats x”DDDDD  
Reply + 6

 

Oswald exhales the fume slowly, leaning back in the chair. He opens Tumblr next and also Twitter. He searches for his name.

The shitstorm is far from being over, but it seems milder. Hater posts are attacked by gifs, edits and manips about the two of them. P3ngu1n, oddly enough, has been accepted by his fandom as a shipname. He finds some fanart on the tag, quick sketches and digital artworks. There’s also an AO3 link for a fanfiction he decides never to read.

He grimaces and closes all windows.

The cigarette’s gone out. Oswald stumbles back to the nightstand, lighting another one. He’s searching for some hard drink, looking under the bed, in the drawers, on the shelves. Nothing.

He orients himself to the kitchen. His apartment is maddeningly silent since the storm had passed over. Even his clashing steps echo.

Oswald finds a half-empty, lonely bottle of golden rum under the sink. He swigs, head thrown back, breath held. The last sip is stuck in his throat, burning his mouth, making him sick. Oswald forces himself to swallow, breathing hard through his nose. The bottle clatters on the counter as he drops it.

He keeps smoking, snooping around. Everything seems to come alive in the floodlight that sneaks in through the windows, rushing through the walls, deepening the shadows.

Oswald shakes his head. It feels light and dizzy. His thoughts flow and he can’t get a hold of any of them. They’re all torn apart, shredded, rewritten. Blind spots.

 

He puts on rugged, black pants and a striped shirt, loose on his neck to let his smeary scar breathe. The clothes are crumpled by the depth of the closet and they stink of last week’s cigarettes. He grabs the first leather jacket he sees and steps into his boots, muddling to keep his balance.

He faces himself in the mirror. He’s a phantom. He didn’t touch his hair or take a shower.

Fight or flight.

He decides to escape, to run into the arms of the roaming city night like a weak little bitch.

 

The bitter wind slaps him with cunning and vagarious waves. Every step he takes feels heavier as he’s rambling from bar to bar. Each time he waddles to the counter, takes a shot, and leaves. He’s not fascinated by the usual stimuli: the smell of wood, filthy with drops of alcohol, thick smog of tobacco and vivid lights, cheap perfumes and melting sweat and serial screams. The knives in the pockets.

The fresh air is nauseating. He’s choking on the damp, hot smoke that’s wreathing from the canals. Oswald opens his mouth to breathe in the rottenness.

He reaches another familiar place. Cryberpunk basses lumber as the door opens and for a moment, the sidewalk is covered in neon pink. A group of people are taking a break from the party, smoking and shrieking and cackling. Oswald humps his shoulders to rush past them, but someone pats him on the back and tries to pull him by his jacket.

“Hey-hey, hi!”

Barbara’s waving at him, flailing like an idiot. She’s holding onto a bottle of Bacardi like her life depends on it. Her knees and her smiles are fluttering.  
  
“Look at you! Aren’t you my fave pansy of all times,” she giggles and tries to punch him in the shoulder. She trips over nothing, grabbing the trash can for balance. Her eyes scan through Oswald. “You look like something I’ve puked out earlier. What’s going on?”

“Nothing.”

“Sure.”

Barbara takes a careful sip, rubbing her mouth with the back of her hand. Her heels are clopping on the sidewalk like a judge’s hammer.

“You’re being a bitch again. Not fun at all.”  
  
“All right, have you even seen the goddamn video?”

Barbara looks him dead in the eye.

“Which. One?”

“The Q&A with my boyfriend. I’ve, uh, got a boyfriend.”

“So?" 

“I don’t know. I don’t fucking know what’s happening.” Oswald pockets his hands and raises his chin. “I mean I know it, I know all of it, I just… can’t get it and it makes me fucking nuts? He loves me and makes me say things I’ve never told anyone else before, and I let him do things to me I’ve never let anybody, and sex is, whoa, I mean, fucking him feels amazing, he turns me on and takes care of me and gives me so much I can’t even… for fuck’s sake, I’ve _presented_ him to my mother? Do you have any fucking idea about the thing we’ve done just an hour ago?”

“I believe I do,” Barbara says, bored.  
  
Oswald claws his shirt hysterically, pulling it down, shoving his scar into Barbara’s face.

“Do you know what this is?” he hisses. “He marked me, burned me with a candle. I did the same. It’s like a fucking symbol of our undying love and passion and fuck knows.”

“Eww, get it out of my face! That’s disgusting.”

“I told him that I loved him,” Oswald growls, and draws back.

Barbara knits her brows, tilting her head. Oswald stares at her without blinking.

“Okay,” Barbara says carefully, choosing a tune that would calm a madman down. “So what’s the deal?”

Oswald is furious, pops his tongue, shrugs.

“Did you not catch any of that?”

Barbara runs her fingers through her hair, sighing impatiently.

“Jesus, Cobblepot, don’t act like a whore.”

“I’m a whore!” Oswald shouts, spreading his arms dramatically. Some guys from the crowd turn their heads towards him. “That’s the fucking point! Do you know the things _I_ wanted? I really wanted to fuck a guy I _actually_ fancied, and now? Now we’re dating, for fuck’s sake and I’ve let everything happen, I’ve let him burn my flesh and tie me up and-”

Barbara cuts in, chattering.

“Tying bitches up, yes, let’s talk about that. By the way, I’ve met this new girl, and let me tell you, the way she uses that whip, _damn-_ ”

“I whipped him tonight,” Oswald mutters, voice flat. “God, I own that ass.”

Barbara leans on the trash can. She’s pouting and rolling her eyes, her knees are clashing together. She starts to speak up:

“Seriously, girl. What are you whining about? Is it so, like, such a disaster that you walked in to have sex and walked out with a boyfriend? Just like that? A perfect one, even? Well bitch, boo hoo. You know what’s your problem? What’s the real problem here?”

Oswald wants to intercalate something sarcastic, but Barbara points at him with the mouth of the bottle, spilling the Bacardi out.

“Let me tell you. You think you’re so fucking brave, sleeping around, being all mystical like ‘hey, look at me, I’m Oswald Cobblepot and I don’t ever get attached, adore me from afar, peasants or you know what, lemme get into the zone to let you suck my dick!’. Now look at you. Some idiot gave his heart to you, and you’re here with me, wailing and panicking about it. Do you know what you are? Do you?” Barbara leans close, whispering: “A pussy.”

Oswald slightly raises his eyebrows.

“Wow. You’ve crushed my fragile masculinity into little pieces.”  
  
Barbara slaps him. Oswald lurches back, snapping at his burning cheek. Barbara’s bracelet left a mark and Oswald howls at her:

“Are you kidding me?”

“Believe me I’m not, bastard. You don’t need your balls to push everyone away, you need them to let someone inside - stop grinning I’ve heard myself -, it’s not the point, okay? Point is, you wanna be brave so you gotta grab them and be pretty fucking grateful for someone who loves you, ‘cause guess what, bitch, we’re not all the same and sometimes you’re only fucked by life!”

Barbara grabs the Bacardi and shoves it to the ground. The bottle shatters into little sparking pieces, splattering onto Oswald’s boots. Something chimes up.

Oswald gets his phone out of his pocket, avoiding eye contact with Barbara. She’s still panting, fallen curls hiding her face. Then she sniffs. She straightens her back, sneaking closer like nothing happened: shreds crackle under her heels.

Oswald’s got a text from Ed.

 

Hi! I’ve just arrived home, safe and sound! B-) I hope everything’s OK with you too. How is your scar? I’ll miss you tomorrow so much, Ozzie. I keep trying to remember you the way I left you, but the picture fades with every moment passing by. It’s frightening. Why can’t I just lock you up, keep you to myself? Why do I have to share you with the world? Wish me luck to see you in my dreams tonight. Sleep tight, love.

1:43 AM ✓✓

 

Oswald presses his lips together. Before he could say a word, Barbara simply snatches the phone from his hand, analyzing the text. Oswald grunts, trying to steal his phone back. Barbara doesn’t even look at him when she reaches out with her free hand, holding Oswald back by his forehead. 

“Wow, the guy’s a psychopath. You need to change the name.”

“What?”

“He’s in your phone like E.Nygma, dickhead. Or what, you don’t want him to be your _sweetheart_ ? Your _darling_ ? _The love of your life_? Would it kill you to use emojis? You know what, forget it.” Barbara beams, eyes flaming as a ruthless idea comes to her mind. “If you’re so emotionally detached, I’m just gonna call him and tell him you wanna break up.”

“I don’t want to break up with him,” Oswald barks, still fighting and flinging for his phone.

“Hah! It’s ringing.”

“Fuck you!”

Pure panic resonates in Oswald’s scream and Barbara lets him go, grinning. Oswald grabs his phone and stares at the screen, pale as bones. The screen goes off and Barbara giggles.

“It was a prank.”

“Bite me,” Oswald breathes, relieved. “Why did you do that?”

“I did it, because-” Barbara claws into the wall, all sudden and startled. Her eyes widen, voice raspy when she spits: “Hold my hair.”

“What?”

Barbara hurtles into the trash can, throwing up in an elegant arc. Oswald moans disgustedly, but steps closer to do as he’s been told. He tsks and sighs while he waits for Barbara to finish.

After several long moments, Barbara clears her throat and wipes the corner of her mouth with careful fingertips. She looks at Oswald with cloudy eyes, eyeshadow smudged, eyelashes stuck together, precise curls ruffled, but she’s still glowing.

“Now,” she says, pouting, “you can come with me, because I want to dance and have fun and I won’t let you ruin my night - or you can go home and do the pondering you totally need. You decide.”

She pats Oswald’s shoulders again, more forceful this time, and turns on her heels.  
  
Oswald follows her vague steps with his glance. Barbara opens the door (the music’s drumming again) and slams it. Oswald waits a bit, gnashing his teeth, spinning his phone in his hand.

Then, he turns his back.

 

He lets the wind blow him towards home, lets the night-lights carry him away. The buildings stand on tiptoes, trying to reach the skies. The bright windows frame fragments of so many different lives, happiness and heartbreak and everything in between.

The streets are breathing and buzzing, overrun by people on foot or in cars, the lamps and neons flashing on them. Oswald can smell mediterranean spices, cheap meat and wet asphalt. Dry smoke hangs over his head, music booming from the clubs, the taxis, the apartments.

He hides in a doorway as the queens of the night go for a hunt, heels high, guns tugged between their fake breasts or fastened to their thighs. He’s not alone, a couple is making out near him, lost in each other.

He wobbles on and lets the glow wash over him, white, red and blue, and someone says to her friend sitting on a hydrant:

“Have you ever noticed that these are the colors of the banner, reflected in the police’s sirens? Is that  fucked up or what?”

Three more GCPD vehicles cross the road, sirens blaring, and Oswald spins around and around, chin tilted up, arms outstretched. He fumbles for his phone; it’s not advised to show it around in the night, but he doesn’t care, he wants to take a picture about all that surrounds him, everything he feels.

_This is our city, our home. This is where I met you._

**754 likes**        1 h  
**oswald_cobblepot** #gotham forever  <3 #night #gothamcity #sundaynight #streetview #trash #grunge #glow #followme #oswaldcobblepot

 

Oswald is lying in bed in his previous shirt, smelling of honey and ginger, nails freshly painted. Hot steam is pouring in from the bathroom, dissolving into the crisp air.

He builds a tower from his favorite pillows and pulls the covers over his head. He curls up and scrolls through his Instagram comments. The screen tells him it’s well past three.

_“Do the pondering you totally need.”_

Oswald opens his log and searches for E. Ed’s name comes up and Oswald taps edit. He deletes back and then just stares at the blank space, pouting. Finally reaching a decision, he growls, and types in E-d-d-i-e, adding a heart emoji. That’s it. That should suffice.

He saves it and stays in his log. His thumb circles over the screen. It’s not quite enough just yet. Ed might’ve felt how anxious he was  this afternoon, he might have felt his uncertainty, his second-guessing. He might got inspired to think about their relationship on his own.

“For fuck’s sake,” Oswald mumbles, and all but smashes the screen when he calls Ed.

Who’s not picking up. Still not. Oswald almost gives up, massaging the bridge of his nose, when a drowsy voice mumbles:

“Zzz ‘Ddd Ngmm.”

“Hey,” he says. He clears his throat, and closes his eyes, face twitching. Ed chirrups:

“Ozzwie-zie?”

“Uhm, something like that. You asleep, huh?”

“Nayyy.” Ed yawns, and then there’s some rustling; judging by how it sounds, Ed turned to his back, and immediately regretted it. “Ouchie.”

“Anyway I’m just calling ‘cause… there’s Tuesday? In a day.”

“Uh-huh?”

The phone is hot in Oswald’s palm.

“Is there a place,” he asks, hoarse, “where you wanted to go all your life, but somehow never managed to do so?”

There’s stunned silence, and then Ed starts humming.

“In Gotham,” Oswald specifies. “For now. I’m taking you on a date. Okay? On Tuesday.”

“I’m free between three and six pm,” Ed mutters. His voice resonates in Oswald’s chest and stomach.

“Cool. That’s cool. So, where should we go?”

“Mmm. Gotham Funfair?”

“Wh...? Okay.”

“I’ve always wanted to, to uh, to go to the Funfair. Dad said, uhh, he didn’t… sign? You know, the papers, when there was the school trip.”

Oswald nods, never minding that Ed can’t see him.

“I’ve been there a couple of times,” he says, “with my father. It’s, uhm. It’s cool. I hope they’ll let you on the rides, I mean you’re fucking tall, but anyway. I’ll pre-order the tickets online. Wait, shit, you’re a student, right? Got a student card?”

“Yeah?”

“Okay, you know what, never mind. It’s easier if I just pre-order them.”

“Yeah.”

“Or get them once we get there. I doubt they’ll sell out. Umm, I’m hanging up now.”

“Eee. No.”

Oswald exhales, slowly. He counts to three, and says:

“Thank you for coming on a date with me. And for generally dating me. Okay, bye.”

Before Ed could say anything, he hangs up and throws the phone away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading~!
> 
> Our lovely beta was [Julie](http://determettation.tumblr.com)
> 
> Hang out with us on tumblr: [captaincuppy.tumblr.com](http://captaincuppy.tumblr.com) // [ longstoryshortikilledhim.tumblr.com ](http://%20longstoryshortikilledhim.tumblr.com)
> 
> Chapter 5 is on its way!


	5. Chapter 5

**THE AMAZING ADVENTURES OF THE PENGUIN & R1DDL3R / GOTHAM FUNFAIR VLOG || xXxThEpEnGuInxXx**

 

“We’re going to pick up Ed,” Oswald announces as he slides into his car. The coral-red leather of the seat creaks as he reverses the mini into the BMW parking behind him.

 

Ed appears in the next shot, collar loosened, his look complete with suspenders and a hat. He glares into the camera:

“What kind of sound effect?”

“Just make a sound effect, I’m cutting you in.”

Ed considers it briefly, and then he says, articulately:

“Bang-bang.”

Oswald gently headbutts the wheel in disappointment. The horn howls and a pick-up truck responds. Oswald straightens his back and drives on, camera balanced on the dashboard. Ed glances at him, smile eager, and asks:

“Why are penguins good race drivers?”

“Are you asking me a riddle? _Again_?”

“Do you give up? _Again_?”

“Fuck. Cause they’re uh, fast swimmers. Considering.”

“Because they're always in the pole position!” Ed waits a few beats. “ _Pole_ position. The position at the inside of the front row…”

Oswald holds up his palm to shut Ed up. The camera shows the devilish grin Ed can’t see. He’s turning the wheel with one hand, expression scolded back to blank, and Ed is of course slightly offended. He mutters:

“No sooner spoken than broken. What am I? Silence.”

Oswald turns towards him, cupping his chin. He kisses him, briefly.

“Ask me a better one,” he breathes the words at Ed’s lips. Ed blinks at him, slowly, and tilts his head.

“Gimme a minute.”

Oswald smirks, getting occupied with the CD-player. Ed glances ahead, pondering, and wiggles in his seat. Oswald looks at him, as if to check whether he’s still there, and his features soften. Dark, slightly gothic music starts playing and Ed lifts his index finger in the air. “Here’s a classic: smell me, buy me and deliver me, I won’t change. What am I?’

“Uh, the solution has to do with homophones, right?”

“Um, yeah - how did you...”

“Smell me, buy me, send me...” Oswald taps the wheel. “Scent, cent with a C, sent.”

The car turns right and Ed’s eyebrows arch up.

“That was quick!”

“It was easy. Made sense.”

Ed stares at him, mouth slightly ajar, and Oswald returns his gaze from behind his round sunglasses. He steps on the brake and the car halts by the red light. The engine is purring.

“What?”

“I missed you,” Ed sighs, and kisses him, deeply. Oswald moans into his wet mouth.

 

The amusement park looks as if someone just left it there to rot in the harbor. Casual queues are flowing towards it, chatter and laughter rumbling like a river. A somewhat threatening, rusty and creaking noise is heard from behind the tall gates. Oswald and Ed inch towards the cashier hand in hand. Oswald is clutching the camera, switched to standby. Ed slides his student ID on the counter, photo down. They get VIP tickets.

“They should be paying us for visiting this safety hazard of a place,” Oswald remarks, fanning himself with the coupons. “Closed down and burned down countless fucking times.”

Ed lets the idle crowd wash him into the funfair, and with chin tilted, he eyes the metal skeleton of the rollercoaster, the cracked and faded slides, the burnt-out neons and peeling plasters, and he says, awed:

“Perfect. Just how I’ve imagined.”

 

They go to the drop tower first. It’s wobbling a little, and apparently someone thought it a good idea to decorate it with awry spray paintings of faceless astronauts. Oswald is holding on to the camera for dear life, focusing it on Ed and himself.

“We’re all going to hell,” he comments as the dirty gondola lifts them up above the steaming city. Their feet are hanging above Gotham’s dark waters and glassy buildings. Ed grabs Oswald’s arm and reminds him of their unavoidable and gruesome deaths by saying:

“You can even see the Wayne tower from here! Whoa! Never been this high up! How tall is this thing?”

Oswald guides Ed’s hands to the rail.

“Four-hundred feet so hold onto your pretty butt.”

Ed cracks a smile and opens his mouth for a smart remark, when they drop to freefall.

He settles for screaming.

 

The next cut shows Oswald going around and around in an oversized teacup, limbs spread. His face is pale and expressionless. Ed is holding the camera, which is shaking from his snickering.

 

Oswald leans into the screen; his sunglasses reflect back blue sunlight.

“Okay, we decided we hate life,” he narrates, “so we gonna get our sorry asses on that water thingie. St. Augustine’s Monster or what.” He zooms on the bizarre sign.

“St. Augustine’s Monster was, in fact, the first recorded blob,” Ed chimes in as the queue moves forward two inches. “It was washed ashore in 1896 on Anastasia Island, and it caused some pretty nice hysteria. They believed it was a giant octopus, and no conclusive analysis was made until 2004; turned out to be the vascularized adipose tissue of a whale. Still, the terror of the monster lasted for more than a century!”

Oswald pouts and looks up at Ed, head thrown back.

“We should totally do something similar as a prank, yeah?”

 

Yellowish foam slides into focus as Oswald raises the camera.

“We’ve managed to board my guy Gustie,” he slurs, “and don’t get me wrong, I’m not scared of getting wet, that’s what she said, there’re kids sitting behind us, wave and smile, tiny fuckers.” The two lil’boys look scarred for life. “Anyways, point is, Ed tells me that the government is suing the place yet again because guess what, turns out it used to be a fucking tinmine? And the water is apparently still pois-- Oops, there we go. Nice knowing y’all.”

There’s a loud cry as water splashes onto the screen.

 

Oswald and Ed are settled in a patch of sunlight on the pavement, backs pressed to a parched wall. They’re soaking wet. Ed’s teeth are chattering and Oswald keeps rubbing his shoulders.

“Well, St. Augustine’s Monster quit on us. Fell headfirst into the fucking pond. Excuse us while we dry.”

Oswald puts the camera in his backpack and with that, he puts away his showman persona. He sighs. Ruffles his hair, and waterdrops sprinkle away, most of them landing on Ed, who sneezes. Oswald leans into the crumbling wall of the burnt down shooting range and glances at him.

“You good?”

Ed’s smile is tender.

“Please. I’m the best.”

They huddle up. It feels so familiar now and Oswald is grateful that Ed would share that little warmth he has left in his bones. He can smell Ed’s clean scent underneath the wet stink of the pond. He buries his face into Ed’s drooping shoulders and lets him caress the back of his leather shirt.

“How have you been, by the way? On Monday. Y’know.”

“Oh? Well, studying took less time than I anticipated, so I sorta bingewatched season one of How to Get Away With Murder.”

“Any useful tips?”

“Nothing but disappointment. Entertaining, though.” Ed pulls back a bit so he can dive into his satchel. He pulls out a bottle, triumphant, and hands it to Oswald. “Got this for you.”

“Wow, thanks, what’s in it?” He removes the cap and smells it, expectant. Ed clears his throat.

“Water.”

“We _just_ got back from underwater.”

“I couldn’t have foreseen that, could I?”

They glare at each other. Oswald brings the bottle to his lips and takes a swig, frowning. Ed beams at him.

“Riddler?” someone shouts, and her companion adds:

“Oh my God, and the Penguin!”

“It’s a two-in-one edition,” Oswald says with a wavering smile. The girl is tall with big hair and running makeup, and the guy is stocky and cheery, with a guitar on his back.

“We don’t want to bother you guys, just ehm, your vids are pretty damn cool. I’m Benny,” he pats his chest, “and she’s Charmagne, and you… you’re into watersports, eh?”

Oswald clicks his tongue, setting the bottle aside.

“We aren’t, but St. Augustine’s Monster is one kinky bastard.”

Benny chuckles.

“Oh, man! Did it malfunction again?”

“Everything _malfunctions_ here,” Charmagne frowns. “They should close it down for real. It’s not safe.”

“Which is the main reason why we keep coming here.”

The girl shrugs.

“True that. Nice to be an adrenaline junkie. Hey guys, it’s been great to see you. Sorry for Benny, he’s a jerk. Can I just have a quick question?”

Oswald is getting ready for a witty answer, but Charmagne turns to Ed, hands clasped.

“I don’t know which vid it was in but it’s been killing me ever since I first saw it.” She knits her eyebrows and slowly recites, index-finger in the air: “Five hundred begins it, five hundred ends it, five in the middle is seen; first of all letters, the first of all figures, take up their stations between. Uhm, join all together, and then you will bring before you the name of an awesome king.”

“An eminent king.”

“That’s the solution?”

“No, the solution is David, of course,” Ed says as he adjusts his glasses. “D is the Roman numeral for five-hundred, V is five, the first number is I, and A is the first letter of the Latin ABC. He was a Biblical king and if I remember correctly, and I always do, I uhm, brought up the riddle in connection of David Vetter who had SCID and had to live his short life in a sterilized bubble.”

“Fuck,” Charmagne grins. “You’re one smart cookie, you know that?”

Ed blushes. Benny gives them a thumbs-up.

“Keep the good work up, yo. Like your shirt, Penguin.”

“Thanks, it likes you back. The lovestory of our ages.”

“Doesn’t top your ship,” Charmagne winks. “Bye!”

Oswald chuckles and waves, and after they’re quite gone, he turns to Ed, who’s hugging his legs, forehead pressed to his bony knees. His ears are red.

“Blue death in that computer brain of yours?”

“Girls don’t talk to me!” Ed whines, downright offended, as it was a glitch in the universe.

“Oh, you liked her?”

“Not in that way, not the point.”

“You’re an idiot,” Oswald snorts, then shuts up. He looks away, then back at Ed. “Let me rephrase that. I agree with her. You’re a fucking genius. Your intelligence got to me right away. It’s damn impressive. Not just all the information you possess but the way you can handle and organise them, you know, it’s far beyond being a ‘smart cookie’. You’re bright, and brilliant, and you...”

“Shut up,” Ed mutters, hoarse. Oswald closes his mouth with a surprised click. Ed looks at him, hair messy, eyes dangerously deep. “If you continue talking, I will fuck you right here and now, I’ll fuck you so hard and so good, and we can’t have that, can we?”

“I’d be delighted if you fucked me ‘hard’ and ‘good,’ actually.”

“But I forgot to bring condoms,” Ed whimpers, curling up on himself. Oswald is caressing his nape, empathically. Ed’s green jeans begin tenting very temptingly.  

 

Oswald snuffles. He adjusts the septum with his hand. His ragged pants stick to his skin, cold and heavy. His hair is ruffled, still not dry.

His fingers suddenly tense under Ed’s touch. Oswald straightens his back, his glance focused at a sign just around the corner of the path.

His grin is cunning as he scrambles to his feet. Ed blinks up at his profile.

“What happened?”

“Come with me.”

Oswald’s voice is trembling with excitement. He grabs Ed’s wrist, pulling him up, dragging him towards the other side of the street. Ed is following him with stumbling little steps, holding onto his bag’s strap for dear life.

He doesn’t know where they’re heading until the very last moment. Oswald’s fingers clench him, rough and pretentious. They stop by a tumbledown wooden stand. Nothing is orthonogal or horizontal in general. The worn paint might have used to be scarlet and beige; now it’s only dirt, milled by acid rain.

A huge guy is sitting on a three-legged chair, looking up at them as they’re closing in. His dark skin is covered with a white undershirt, denim pants and tattoos. A cigarette is waggling behind his left ear.

“Hello,” Oswald chatters in a sweet tone. He flips Ed before him with a nobel heave, clenching his upper arm. “My bf wants to get a henna.”

“Do I?” Ed asks, challengingly, staring down at Oswald with a pouty smile. He arches his eyebrows.

“You totally do.”

“Fine,” the guy sighs, patting the chair next to him. “Tell me what and where.”

Ed steps forth, sitting down in the chair with a little wiggle. He presses his lips together, wondering, as he rolls his sleeves up.

“Let’s say a question mark on the wrist.”

“Okay.”

The guy takes a plastic case from below the counter.

While he flips the paints’ caps and prepares the piping bag, Oswald crawls closer to Ed. Ed reaches out to him with his free hand to hug him. His hand finds its way to Oswald’s back pocket.

“Are you proud of yourself?,” he breathes, throwing his head back.

Oswald bites his lower lip, tousling Ed’s damp hair.

“Hell yeah,” he shrugs, peeking at the guy. “How permanent is this thing?”

“Varies.” He takes Ed’s hand, putting it back to the counter in an unnatural pose. “Stay like this. It depends on how many times you wash your hands. It could last for two weeks.”

“I wash my hands quite regularly and often.”

“Expect a week, then.”

“Aww, you want me to hold your hand?,” Oswald chirps as the first trembling line of the paint touches Ed’s skin. Ed grasps his ass, expression blank.

“I’m hanging on.”

They smirk at each other, and glancing away, observe the guy’s precise work. Ed’s interest is almost scientific, leaning ahead, stretching his neck. Oswald is enchanted by Ed’s bony, bent wrist: his ink-blue veins are clearly visible, flowing and boiling under his pale skin.

They guy finishes sooner than Oswald would expect. He painted a half an inch long, criss-crossed question mark, its point a dashed spiral. He pours some water from a plastic bottle into a sponge, scrubbing Ed’s skin.

“We’re done,” he mumbles, leaning back. He takes the cigarette behind his ear, lighting it with a match. He doesn’t look up as he asks: “You like it?”

“It’s perfect,” Ed snaps, proudly heaving his hand in front of Oswald’s face. “So?”

Oswald shakes his head, curling his lips. He takes Ed’s hand between his, bending his palm back.

“Fuck you,” he manages. “Your hands are so beautiful. It suits you perfectly, it enhances the curve of your wrist. Fuck. It’s great. Fuck.” He drops Ed’s hand with theatrical offense. “I’m a genius.”

Ed’s grin beams of victory. The tattooed guy was watching them without saying a word, smoking calmly. Now, he gets a crumpled piece of paper out of his pocket, giving it to Ed. Ed hesitates at first, but takes it anyway.

“My card,” the guy croaks. “I’m also a tattooist. I have a salon at Robinsville, if you’re interested.”

“Oh! Hm. I’ll think about it. Thanks, uhm-,” Ed peeks down at the card, looking for a name. “-Mark.”

Oswald almost disappears in his bag, snatching out his wallet and phone. He stares at Ed with blank eyes.

“I’m taking a pic of it,” he says rigidly. “ _Only_ for Instagram.”

 

They stroll through the amusement park hand in hand, Oswald clutching a white balloon Ed got him from a man wearing a pig mask. He’s filming the crowd, thumb touching Ed’s wrist again and again, following the delicate line of the question-mark. The sun is fading away, its pale rays caught on the striped tents and lush leaves.

 

They’re sitting on a carousel, riding a pony which is choking up acid rainbows. The music player is broken and the tingling tunes are disoriented and too slow. Oswald is facing Ed, intertwining their legs, camera in hand. The balloon follows them around and around like some stubborn ghost.  

“What’s your worst nightmare?” Oswald asks. Ed squints into the camera, then averts his gaze.

“What I have are far worse than nightmares. Why do you ask?”

“Just being topical.”

“You have nightmares about amusement parks?”

“No, this amusement park is a fucking nightmare; in a good sense, I guess.”

With that, Oswald closes the LCD display with a soft click and puts the lid on the objective. The plastic pony rises and sinks, rises and sinks, all the while grinning.

“My nightmares are kinda paranoid,” he confesses. “I’m being tortured. I’m being followed. I keep loosing my teeth, for some reason. I’m drowning and choking and I’m, erhm, put into situations when I’m not in control of my life. I _could_ fight it, but I’ve got no options. And humiliation seems worse than death.”

“This sounds kinda neat, actually,” Ed muses. Oswald tilts his head.

“You don’t have dreams like these?”

“My nightmares don’t have… stories, or characters, or any kind of narrative. Mostly it’s nothing but cacophony, or flashing images without any attached validation, unbearable sounds or chatter, louder and louder; I can hear people speaking in foreign tongues, but I cannot see them, and when I look down, I don’t have hands, feet, or anything.” Ed swallows. “I hate the images the most, when there are images, when there’s _anything_ to see. And I hate it when I can smell or touch things. There’s the soggy tar of despair, or rotting meat instead of my brains and I try to get it out, and I break my own skull and start cawling it away, and I can _feel_ it. I don’t remember… all cases, but I often have sleep paralysis as well.  I’m just laying there, and I’m convinced that something else is in the room with me, but I cannot open my eyes to see it, and when I feel a cold weight on my chest I can’t do anything to push it away. All in all… if I ever wake up besides you somewhat disoriented, it’s because… of these.”

Oswald measures him, then nods to himself, deciding:

“It won’t come to that when you’re with me. I won’t let any fucking nightmare hurt you, understand?”

 

By the end of their date, they’re munching on caramel apples, idly wandering towards the exit. A pleasant, languid numbness takes over Oswald’s senses. The afternoon pulls in a bigger wave of crowd, and neonlights bleed into the blue of the sky. Ed halts in front of a stall, which is mostly covered by stuffed animals. He licks the caramel with the tip of his tongue, and then he takes a big bite. Oswald is ready to say something about it when Ed tosses him the stick.

“Hold it for me, please.”

“Thought you were in a hurry?”

“We’ve still got some time to waste.” With a long step, Ed goes to the counter. “Cardiovascular sys’ starts at six thirty.”

“Why would you…” Oswald mutters, standing behind him. Ed cracks his fingers and greets the game master:

“Hi, good evening.”

The boy is spread out on a chair, visibly bored with his phone. His nametag reads “Jerome.”

“Give me five and you can have whichever you like,” he sings, stressing each vowel. Ed chuckles, swaying a bit.

“Where’s the fun in that? I want to win a prize for my boyfriend.”

Jerome’s reddish gaze scans them up and down like an X-ray.

“Good for you.”

“Summer job?” Ed guesses with an empathic smirk.

“Family business.” He pulls out three plastic knives, laying them on the table. Oswald looks at the colorful wheels spinning around behind him: grotesque, gargoyle-like faces are painted in the middle, screaming forever.

“Only aim at the wheels, pretty please,” Jerome explains. “Your prize will be determined by the scores, non-negotiable, entry fee three-fifty, cash only, break a leg.”

Ed searches his pockets for change and hands it to Jerome.

“Ready?”

“Born ready.”

“Are you actually doing this?” Oswald chimes in, but Ed merely winks, doing a rather graceful trick with the knife, allowing it to freely spin around each digit before aiming it at his object. He scores fifty and the painted face starts screaming.

“Why is it screaming?” Oswald scoffs, and Jerome looks him dead in the eye.

“She’s tormented by her dark past.”

Another score and another shriek, and a wide smile creeps to the boy’s lips. Oswald looks at Ed for help, who’s playing with the last knife. He should’ve filmed it, Ed’s long and delicate hands in action, graceful like the hands of a surgeon. The question mark flashes as Ed throws the knife and scores top.

“Yippee,” Jerome announces, and falls back to his chair like a reverse jack-in-the-box. “Take anything. Take three.”

“I only want the penguin,” Ed demands, and Oswald scowls.

“Are you fucking with me?”

“I wish.”

“I’m a minor,” Jerome says, “you’re corrupting me.” He reaches for the penguin and sends it flying to the table.

“Appy-polly-loggies,” Ed beams while Oswald is eyeing the penguin suspiciously.

The penguin is - well, it’s round. Very round. It’s a big, fluffy excuse of a bird, with sparkling blue eyes and cute little flippers. Oswald picks it up by the scruff. It’s actually _heavy_.

“Aww, look at you, how cute,” Ed coos, and Oswald gives him back his apple, smearing caramel on his hands as an act of petty revenge.

“It’s revolting,” He says, hugging the plushie to his chest. “A sin against nature. I love it.”

 

 **Oswald Cobblepot** _at_ Gotham Funfair _with_ Edward Nygma 10 mins

on our way home w/ the lamest penguinfreak ever LOOK AT IT #BoyfriendGotMeAnUglyGift #WaitWhyIsThereASampleTag4It #MyHeartGoesOut2U

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Oswald is sitting in the car, with the penguin on his lap, wobbling at every road shock. In Oswald’s broken ankle, there’s a pleasant buzz of light pain, on his lips, a ghost smile: it appears and re-appears again, and he’s trying so hard to hide it. Sometimes he wins, then loses again as Ed opens his mouth and starts chattering next to him. Oswald lets his voice cradle him, wash over him, nestle into his stomach. His fingers are still sticky from the apple, making it impossible to drive.

One time, he manages to get in the wrong lane, making Ed giggle.

“Shut your mouth. If I take you to sightseeing, you’ll be late,” Oswald growls, pulling back to the turn lane without even watching the road.

A break creaks behind them. A rusty voice wishes for Oswald to go back where his life started.

Ed glances at his watch.

“It’s fine. We’re only two corners away.”

“Two corners, and our sloppy farewell begins.”

“Aww.”

“Shut. It.”

Oswald takes two parking stalls with the mini car as he backs right in front of St. Ambrose’s hand-wrought gate. One of the wheels crawl up to the roadside, so Ed almost falls out of the door when he tries to fold his legs out. Oswald pulls the window down with a button, elbowing out.

“So,” he pops his tongue, hesitant. Ed leans down to meet his eyes.

“‘So?” he urges him softly. Oswald shrugs, croaking:

“So have a nice lecture.”

Ed laughs. He kisses the tip of Oswald’s nose, not drawing back. He tilts his head and sighs enchantedly.

“Thank you for the rendezvous, Ozzie.”

Oswald grimaces.

“Thanks for that crappy penguin. And the balloon. Just, eh. Keep in touch or something.”

“By all means.” He licks his lips. “Look, I-”

“Ed, hey!”

“Hi, Ed.”

Ed straightens. His shoulders don’t hide the sidewalk anymore, so Oswald can see the couple stopping by the gate perfectly. Oswald’s stomach is seized with a cramp. His fingers grab the handbrake so he can leave in a snap.

“Hey. Holla, Lee!”

The girl steps closer, giving Ed a high five. Oswald is frozen, avoiding to look at Jim Gordon at any costs. Jim presses his lips together, forcing himself to nod.

“So sorry to disturb you,” Lee gabbles, “but holy cow, listen, I saw an appeal at the reception today, an opportunity for summer internship, and I got us two application forms cause guess where we’re going!” Lee grabs Ed’s hands, bending her knees. “Guess! Maybe don’t guess, you’ll guess it right. Guess! No, I’m telling you. Arkham!”

Ed’s eyes flare up, his mouth opens and closes.

“No.”

“Yes! We’re going to Arkham! We’re totally going to Arkham, right?” Lee starts hopping. Seeing that Ed doesn’t join her just yet makes her slow down a bit. “Right?”

Ed is still buffering, gaping and shaking his head. Then, he starts hopping too, with Lee’s hands in his. It’s the perfect example of a social suicide, so Oswald tries to cut in with clearing his throat, to get the fuck outta here. It’s like Ed felt his boredom: he peeks at him, and Lee is following his glance.

Lee’s smile is melting. She looks Oswald up and down. She is taken aback at the sight of the stuffed penguin.

“Hi,” Lee greets him in a strange voice. “Oswald. Wow.”

“Yeah. It’s me. In the flesh.”

“How, uh. How are you?”

“I feel prime. Gotta go, actually.”

Jim steps in front of Lee, like a fucking bodyguard, like he expects Oswald to jump out of the car and kill them both. He’s got half the mind to do it, actually, just to anger the hell out of Jim.

Oswald stares at Ed with deadish eyes. Ed’s eyelashes flutter. It’s like he’d say “I get it”.

“Talk to you later,” Oswald spits and starts the car.

The car hurtles ahead. Oswald feels like he left his stomach in the parking lot. He peeks at the driving mirror.

Ed is looking at him with a tender smile.

Oswald clenches his teeth, bumping his head into the headrest.

 

**Sad_Lovers_ &;Giants-50_50.mp3**

 

Oswald sings along while editing the vid. By now, he’s pretty hoarse.

A bubble pops up at the corner of the screen, so sudden that he jumps a little. He’s eyeing the Skype request with an insulted frown. A certain ¿CONONDRUM? wants to add him; his icon shows the Elephant Man in all his glory.

 

**Double click to call Oswald, mum (charles one more emoji and you’re BLOCKED) // honk honk**

dropitlikeits@hotmail.com

eddie?

 

**¿CONONDRUM? // “You can never be overdressed or overeducated!”**

ikilledlaurapalmer@hotmail.com

At your service. (-8

 

**Double click to call Oswald, mum (charles one more emoji and you’re BLOCKED) // honk honk**

dropitlikeits@hotmail.com

i just wanna

w h i s p e r it

into ur beautiful ears

that

skype is strictly for family and i’ve got no idea how u got hold of my address??

but hey

hello there <3

please dont look at my icon :p

 

**¿CONONDRUM? // “You can never be overdressed or overeducated!”**

ikilledlaurapalmer@hotmail.com

How am I not family? )-8

 

**Double click to call Oswald, mum (charles one more emoji and you’re BLOCKED) // honk honk**

dropitlikeits@hotmal.com

u’d need to propose

lol

_¿CONONDRUM? requested a video call_

 

Oswald peeks behind his shoulders. The living room is in its usual over organized order, thanks to the fact that he hardly ever uses this room for anything but filming. A well-designed void of desolation; no bottles. He looks down at himself. The worn The Cure shirt, courtesy of the laundry basket, will do; and the comfy leather pants even look kinda hot. He bares his shoulders, wets his lips, and pulls the headset down to his neck. After saving the file, he clears his throat, and calls Ed.

Ed is lying on his stomach in the bed. He’s got fucking pyjamas on.

“Can you hear me?” he chirrups.

“Yeah, yeah. Gimme a sec.” He fumbles for the nearest light switch - the screen on his side is too dark; as he reaches it, he catches the glance of the plushie, who’s sitting by the lamp. He’s been eyeing it the whole night, oddly triumphant. “Just to be clear,” he says, only his ass wiggling into the frame, “you don’t really need to propose to me to be on my contact list.”

“Would it increase my chances?”

“I want candlelight dinner and doves flying out from your ass.”

“Noted,” Ed smiles into his pillow.

“Eww. What’s up?”

He sits down, finally, resting his chin on his interwoven fingers. Ed licks his lips.

“Did some mock-exams. They were fun. Had a laugh with Lee. Made dinner, cleaned the bathroom, cleaned the girls, fed them, fed myself, washed the dishes.” Frowning, he adds: “Got caught up in some reddit debate on Korean currency urban legends.”

“Don’t spare me the nasty details.”

“Curses were cast. Hearts were broken. I may or may not have called someone an ignoramus in the process. A certain clustr69 owes me one-thousand KRW I guess.”

“Wow, you’re rich!”

“That’s like one dollar.”

“Wow, you’re broke!”

They chuckle, and Ed adjusts his glasses.

“What are you up to?”

“Me? Just fucking around with the vid.”

“Can’t wait to see it,” Ed hums, and Oswald just bursts out:

“I miss you.”

There’s a short pause.

“I miss you too, Ozzie.”

Oswald hugs his healthy leg closer, and Ed clings to his pillow.

“One of these days,” Oswald begins, “we should have some Netflix and chill with your top ten. Not a great fan of movies, but dunno. You could show me something cool.”

Ed sinks into despair.

“I’ve got my ‘1001 movies you must watch before you die’ list completed on IMDB but I don’t have a top ten as of yet.”

“And you’ve seen… erhm, all of them?”

“Um, yeah. You could I don’t know, browse it and see if there’s anything you like, maybe?”

“I want you to choose for me.”

Ed looks him up and down, as if he’d just met him, and whispers, nodding:

“À bout de souffle.”

“Is it about a souffle?”

“It’s French and…”

“Iz it àbout le French soufflè?”

“Shut up,” Ed throws the pillow towards him, and Oswald ducks and chuckles.

It’s like both of them forgot that they’re not together.

“It’s old-school. Black-and-white. Betrayal, gangsters, sex.”

“Sounds just about perfect.” He grins. “You used the S-word.”

Ed scoffs.

“I use the S-word quite regularly, having studied biology, and I hope you’ve noticed that I have sex with you on a semi-regular basis?”

“Liar,” Oswald objects. “You did not, and I quote, “made sweet love to me” today, merely “wrestled my tongue for dominance,” so semi-regular my sorry ass.”  

“Then come over and fuck my lying whore mouth.”

Oswald’s breath catches. Ed rolls to his side, a challenging smirk on his lips. Oswald starts coughing, overdoing it, and Ed’s laughing.

“Would they still let me in?”

“I don’t think so, no. I could leave the window open though.”

“When are you gettin’ up tomorrow?”

“Five-ish.”

“ _Forget it_.”

Ed is downright giggling, biting his fist and enjoying himself just a little too much. Oswald is studying him, then after a few beats, he lifts his shirt up, flashing pale, freckled chest and all the marks Ed’s left.

“What are you...?

“Well, babe won’t let me come over, so I need to take care of myself, yeah?”

With a somewhat breathless chuckle, Ed sits back on his ankles. He realises he’s out of frame, so he lies back on his stomach.

“I gather we’re doing skypesex?”

“Starting to look like it,” Oswald affirms, pinching a pale nipple. “Care to join, pyjamas?”

Ed is clapping his hands in enthusiasm.

“Terrific! I’ve looked it up a while ago, had some technical questions. We’ve established consent, so now we’ll just need to list ten things we expect to get from this experience, like dirty talking or striptease, and…”

Oswald sighs, letting his shirt fall back in place.

“Be right back. If a fucking list will be waiting for me when I return, I’ll turn off the laptop.”

Ed nods, briskly.

“Roger-dodger. I’ll gather my equipment as well.”

Oswald heads to the bedroom, but after a few waggling steps, he turns on his heels.

“What’s point two? By the way.”

“According to my sources,” Ed stretches, “Cosmo _et les autres_ , we should look into each other’s eyes through the camera and just breathe.”

“That’s some hardcore discipline and punish shit right there.”

 

Oswald tears himself away from the screen and limps to the bedroom. He rummages around the nightstand for some lube, a condom and an anal plug in an unopened “ _my me time friend_ ” box.

“Merry Christmas,” he mutters, peeking inside.

He steps out of his pants and peels off the shirt. The remnants of his makeup are still around his eyes. He thinks about putting on lipstick, decides against it, gets his stuff and brings them to the bathroom to clean the plug.

 

 

There’s something very familiar in sitting in front of the laptop, naked. Ed hasn’t returned yet, so he’s got some time to come up with an effortlessly graceful pose.

First things first, he turns the plushie away so it’s facing the wall.

With some effort, he spreads his thighs and pulls up his busted leg. The lights are sensually low, enhancing the shadows.  The scars and bruises on his pale skin seem to be blooming, cock flaccid over the red scratches Ed’s nails have left.

“I’ve closed the door,” Ed announces as he returns in nothing but a towel, and then he says, “oh my.”

“What?”

“You look really lovely.”

Oswald slides two fingers between his lips, and arching an eyebrow, starts sucking them. He’s bobbing his head, eyelashes fluttering softly, as he pushes his fingers in and out and in. Ed is watching him, mesmerised, transfixed. Oswald lets his middle finger catch in his throat and lets out a gagging cough; it works, since Ed replies with a small moan. Oswald pulls his hand away with an obscene sound, saliva dripping down, and  spreading his fingers, urges on Ed:

“Come on, Eddie, it’s just like communism: everybody shall work together for the greater good.”

“Communism only works as an abstract ideology,” Ed replies automatically, keeping his gaze on Oswald’s hands. He clicks his tongue.

“I want to see that long cock of yours, baby.”

Ed comes to his senses, and nodding, he puts the towel away. Oswald surveys him, satisfied: Ed’s cock is already flushed and hard, the shiny head leaking precome.

“A sight for sore eyes,” Oswald sighs. “Jerk off for me.”

“Oh dear,” Ed whispers, licking his lips.

Oswald’s stroking his cock with just the tip of his fingers as Ed gets the lube and sets to work; an angry rhythm, precise, practiced. Oswald is watching him, oddly touched, his breath hot and heavy. Chest heaving and stomach trembling, he’s fucking his fist. He could come just from this, and it wouldn’t even take long, just a few long, lazy thrusts and the sight of Ed seeking his orgasm - but he doesn’t want him to get ideas, to think that it’s the best they can do.

He reaches for the plug, and settles it between his thighs, rolling the condom on it. He’d expected a somewhat more dramatic reaction than the slight falter in Ed’s merciless rhythm, so he starts caressing it while coating it with plenty of lube, and asks him:

“Have you ever used a plug before?” He settles it to his entrance, but doesn’t start pushing in.

Ed swallows, dry and loud.

“I haven’t. I, hah, I was thinking that it’d be nice to try one with a girl, have her y’know, wear a strap-on, but umm, I huh, don’t really see the point with a guy or any person with a penis?”

“Oh, Eddie, Eddie,” Oswald purrs. “I’ll take you to places.”

He pushes the plug in with one long, languid motion; his back arches up and his legs lift up, toes curling. His head is rolling back, and he needs to close his eyes and bite his lips, moaning:

“Fuck, it hurts.”

“Holy moly.”

Oswald starts to pull it out, and rolls it, letting it leave wet stains on his spread legs.

“If you were with me, Eddie, you’d be fucking me in this armchair,” he sighs, eyes cast down.

“Please,” Ed breathes, letting go of his erect cock and grabbing it again only once Oswald’s pushed the plug back.

“How’d you do it? How would you fuck your boyfriend?”

Ed grins, teeth flashing.

“Slowly,” he whispers.

“And then I’d tell you to hurry the fuck up,” Oswald says, pulling the plug in and out in a ridiculous rhythm, “because you’ve got an early class and I gotta upload the video so do it, do it, just! Do! It!”

Ed laughs, husky and breathless, and touches his chest with his free hand.

“You’re unbelievable,” he says. “My beautiful Ozzie, driving me crazy…”

“Have I managed to seduce you with my sexy Shia LaBeouf impression?” Oswald asks, slowing down, cock sticking to his stomach.

“I’ve been thinking about it for quite some time,” Ed confesses, spitting into his palm and adding some lube to it.

“About Shia LaBeouf? You’ve been jerking off to Shia LaBeouf?”

“No, I’ve been jerking off to you,” Ed blurts out.

“Have you? Well-well, you filthy little stalker.”

“It wasn’t like that. It wasn’t personal. It’s just… some five years ago, I guess, I…”

“Oh?”

“So you just came to my mind as I was, well, having some alone time under the covers. Which was… ah, kinda curious, I’ve only been thinking about girls before. I’ve been watching your vlogs before going to bed so it only made sense, that’s what I told myself, but… Picturing you, y’know, there, with me…”

“You came harder than ever before?”

“And instantly,” Ed nods, biting his lips. He hastens to add: “I didn’t want to disrespect you in any way. I never told anyone about it. It was just a private little sex fantasy and I kept coming back to it. It had nothing to do with you and me, I locked it away, and when I was watching your vids, I wasn’t thinking about it, not consciously, but once I was…”

“Eddie,” Oswald sighs. “You don’t need to apologize. I’m your boyfriend. We’re currently jerking off together. It’s cool. I’m here. I’m real.”

  
Ed looks up at him from behind his askew glasses, gaze deep and vulnerable. Warmness washes over Oswald, and he has to stop for a second, the heat of Ed’s eyes overwhelming him, making him dizzy.

“Problem is,” Ed says, “I bet I wasn’t the only one. I can’t bear thinking about it, all those people watching you and…”

“Eddie?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re the only one who matters.”

 

 

Around Oswald’s waist, there’s a wet towel. He smooths his hair back from his forehead. He clings onto a bottle of Martini.

Three hours passed by. He’s still huddled up in front of the vibrating screen. He rests his chin on the tabletop, frowning at the uploading video in complete agony. The process feels like an eternity and he’s measuring the minutes in sips. It’s been a while.

The screen darkens once again. Oswald is staring back at himself, at the arched, coaly brows and freckled forehead, and he pokes the touchpad. The screen lights up. Eighty-two percent completed.

Oswald whines, and drinks.

He squirms, straightening his back. He opens Facebook in a new tab. He faces himself once again, his other self from this afternoon. He tilts his head, his glance flutters at Ed: his awkward grin, his palm above his eyes, like a sunshield. The question mark is only a tiny blur.

Oswald smirks back at the pixel lips, chuckling. He reaches out with soft fingertips, caressing the screen.

“Mine,” he mumbles, biting into his lip. He squints. “Already asleep, aren’t you? In your silly pyjamas, in your silly bed, on your silly pillow, inside your silly dorm. Cause you’re silly. The silliest genius I’ve ever met.” He swigs again. “You asked for this, leaving me alone for tonight. Fucking you like this wasn’t enough, it’s never ever enough. Shit.”

He chuckles again, clawing his hair. He tsks at the screen, just to be sure pixel-Ed is ashamed of himself, then opens a new tab. He is in deep waters, trying to type the right keys for tumblr.com.

His inbox is fucking full, as always, so he quickly scrolls through the dashboard first. Drunk Oswald reblogs such posts sober Oswald would throw up to even see: lovey-dovey quotes and empty promises.

He hits page up, offended by himself.

Most of the messages are the usual fan mails with clichés and questions nobody cares about. His hazy eyes catch a name.

He snarls, leaning closer to the screen. 

Anonymus said:  
[https://www(.)youtube(.)com/watch?v=9krg3HpU5OH ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9krg3HpU5OH)have you seen it? :O fish is bitching about you again. :/

  
“The fuck-”

He copies the link. It’s not an easy task for him, now that he’s drunk and raging.

As he faces Fish, staring deep into the objective, his throat tightens.

 

 **< *)))<  ** **#RealTalkTuesday Q &A / fears, relationships & more | ___fish___**

 

Fish is glowing on the screen in a claret dress with golden claws. The background of her videos haven’t changed since Oswald saw it last time: stateful rococo room, matching Oswald’s. The lights are softer, quiet jazz is whispering while Fish is talking.

“Welcome, pollywogs,” she starts in her purring voice that always makes Oswald nauseous.

He tries to smudge the caustic taste on the roof of his mouth.

Without pausing it, he glides through the video’s trail with the cursor, to find some clues: something, anything, that shows his _appreciation_. In the tiny index pictures, he sees nothing but Fish. No cut-in scenes, no images.

He shoves the cursor away. He swigs from the bottle again, ruffling his hair, getting ready to watch the whole fucking shit. He clobbers up like Fish would be here with him, judging him, wishing for a fight: a fight where she can inflict another wound upon Oswald’s image. He cannot let her win this time.

Fish starts talking about nothing. Oswald isn’t really listening to anything she has to say. He keeps replying to her with prickly comments and growls.

He’s searching for mistakes in everything she says or does; in her privy smirk, the elegant gestures, the cool chic, the wave of her torso as she gently crosses her legs under the table.

Oswald is booing and drinking. In eight minutes, he drinks the whole bottle; Oswald is shaking it, waiting for the last drops to slosh. The empty bottle clangs. The sound is miserable.

Oswald tenses in his chair to get up and find new supplies.

Then, the next question is read aloud.

“Lizzz, with three Zs, wants to know: ‘What do you think about Penguin and Riddler’s new relationship? I don’t think it’s healthy. Ps., I love you so!’”

Oswald deepens his nails into the wooden tabletop. Fish chuckles. It doesn’t sound like laughter; it’s more like a biting “ _hmm_ ”.

Her voice gutters down his ribs, making him wince.

“First of all, I love you, too, honey. Thank you for your support.” Fish blows a kiss. There’s silence for a moment, before Fish’s voice threateningly fades. “Penguin and Riddler, well. I have heard the story, of course, although I’m not aware of every aspect. It doesn’t matter. I couldn’t care less about Penguin’s wretched virtual life.”

Oswald scratches the table. His nails leave tiny marks, thin and long-drawn like veins.

Fish continues. Every one of her words are dripping with disgust.

“Let me tell you something, now and for all. Oswald Cobblepot is a _nobody_. He’s a newly rich son of a bitch who takes everything for granted. It doesn’t matter that his so-called fans turned him into a hero, or a martyr, if that’s what he asked for. It doesn’t matter that he acts like an uncrowned king. It doesn’t matter who he makes out with for fame. I don’t think anyone has ever lightened him up, so let me be the lucky one.” She leans closer. Her chin is resting on her hand. “Penguin, if you’re watching this - YouTube is not your own reality show. It is a workplace. You have to accomplish goals, expend time and effort to it, so your talents pay off. I’m sorry to inform you that your work is ridiculous, amateurish and fault-finding. Behind your every word, there’s a desperate cry for help. You are a show-off, a busker.”

Fish pauses. Oswald is trembling, out of breath. His nostrils are whitening with rage.

“You use your relationship to maintain your fame. This is truly disgusting. You have set that poor boy to a pedestal, making a parade. You use him like an aesthetic tool. I have to admit, Riddler seems like a handsome, intelligent boy. He’ll eventually know better, that’s indisputable. Come on, boy. Deep down, you know Riddler doesn’t deserve a bastard like you. You. Ruin. His. _Life_.”

Oswald swallows dry. He leans back, defeated, pupils dilated with shatters of rage.

“My advice to you, my little Penguin: think about it. Think about him. Think about your life, and where you truly belong. Success without talent is a transient dream. Don’t wait until you become a shooting star, cracking under the professional’s heels. Accept it, darling - this is no place for you. I’m sure you’ll soon find yourself a job where you can run your… _abilities_.” Fish smiles; her eyes stay cruel. “Keep your chin up. You can even be a washer-up.”

Fish considers the tongue-lashing and the video as done. She is saying goodbye with a gentle waving of her fingers. The music loudens as her outro starts with the usual animation: a skeleton of a fish, swimming in circles, out of frame.

The video stops.

Oswald feels his fury bubbling inside of him. To oppress his pathetic self-hatred, the burning guilt, the chance of Fish being right, he lets his fury to rampage. He clenches his fists, hitting on the table with all his strength. The pain that flashes through his nerves clouds his senses even more.

He stares at the screen with shivering fists and lips, hissing:

“That _bitch_.”

And he spits on the screen.

 

**Hanni_El_Khatib_-_Family.mp3**

 

Oswald wakes up with his face pressed into the arm panel, mouth open. The sofa’s leather sticks to his bare chest. He turns towards the pillows, curling up and regretting it as pain flashes through his stiff ankle.

Distant music plays in the background, getting louder and louder, and it takes him some time to realize it’s supposed to be his ringtone. He peeks behind his shoulders.

The dusty lights of the living room nearly blind him.

He pushes himself up, groaning, and attempts to stand up. He manages to kick into a bottle, which rolls away, clattering. Looking down, he realises that he’s standing on the neck of a rum, and as he inches away, he gives the foot to a can of vodka. He couldn’t care less, fighting his way towards his chiming phone.

“Eddie, is that...” he mutters. His throat is dry, he’s lost his briefs, and the floor feels like jelly. He catches the edge of the writing desk and looks around for his phone. The evidence of yesterday night is laid out around him: the buzzing laptop, an empty bottle of martini, the buttplug, a pack of cigarettes, a used condom, the stuffed penguin, and his phone, finally. He reaches for it and picks it up.

“Mhew?” he grumbles as greeting, and turns the pack of cigarettes upside down, shaking it. It’s empty. Perfect.

Stubs are floating in the leftover martini.

“Are you free today?” Ed asks, too loud, and Oswald hisses, but still presses the phone closer. He drops to the armchair, boneless, and says:

“I guess.”

“Neat! I can’t tell you how thrilled I am, Ozzie, there’s a new body-”

“Oh my God,” Oswald mutters. “You’ve killed someone.”

“Erhm, nope, not exactly, no.”

“Where rrr yeh?”

“In the morgue?”

“Isthatso?” Oswald frowns. “That explains everything, Edduh, like they live there, y’know, the erhm, the dead.” He fumbles for the penguin and starts petting it. His headache is killing him. It’s been a while since he’d been so hungover.

“You should see it, Ozzie,” Ed chatters. “It’s gorgeous. The acid burned it, her, she’s unrecognisable. If you want to meet it you should hurry up.”

“Uhn?”

“It’s here at the uni, some lucky bastards will have a field day tomorrow, but I’ve managed to sneak in, so if you could come relatively early we could dissect it a bit. They’ll notice it, of course, but they won’t be able to do anything about it.”

“So,” Oswald mumbles, “it’s a date, yeah?”

“When shall I expect you?”

“Erhm. Well, if you don’t wanna fall out of love with me, then you should give me umm, two hours. Atleast.”

“Two hours sounds about right. I’ll figure something out. Are you okay, by the way?”

“Yeah, just uh, had the pleasure to wake up.”

“It’s four pm, little one.”

“I’m not even little, you’ve been misinformed,” Oswald yawns. “5’6”, that’s way taller, actually, than for ‘xample, a common chiffchaff, or several of ‘em, standing on each other’s backs.”

Ed chuckles.

“Pardon - you’re taller than a what?”

“A common chiffchaff! That’s a bird!” Oswald nearly shouts. “They’re the size of an average cock, as in, a flaccid dick, and they make sounds like ‘chiff’ and ‘chaff.’ Hauntingly beautiful.”

“Are you drunk?”

“I _was_ drunk.”

“Do you measure cocks in birds?”

“Not really, my darlin’ dove.”

Ed scoffs.

“What did you drink?”

Oswald sobs.

“ _Everyting_. And I vaguely recall a trip to the uhm, liquor store.”

“Did you take anything else?”

“Nuhh-uh.”

“Right after we hang up, eat some toast and drink two big glasses of water, okay?” Ed orders him. “Sixteen-twenty ounces. I’ll get you some medicine in the meantime. Avoid Tylenol at all costs. What are your symptoms? Headache, dizziness, nausea?”

“In that order. But ‘am good, I am, I’m gonna make it and puke on you. Romantically.”

“I’m _serious_ about the water. Give me a ring once you’re here.”

“Will do.”

There’s a bit of silence.

“Eddie?” Oswald mutters. He’s thinking about yesterday, about saying _I love you_ out loud.

“Yes, Ozzie?”

“If you’ve got… some cigarettes, on you, on your person. Or if you could roll me some. I’m all out and then I won’t have to stop at the store.”

“Okay! Gotta go. Love you, take care!”

“Okay.”

 _“Water.”_ _  
_

“ _Okay_.” Oswald hangs up, and staring at the screen, hisses: “I love you too, asshole.”

 

Oswald is waiting for Ed, smelling like jasmine and honey, the wide brim of his hat pulled into his face. He’s got the round sunglasses from yesterday on and they don’t do shit to shield the fucking rays of sunshine.

The med school is an enormous, beautiful building, looking more like a museum than a school. Gothamites cherish it so much that the ones seeking immortality painted its walls with their names and vivid dreams, generations upon generations of awed artists appreciating fine architecture. Like one of the graffiti reads “IT’S A BIG ASS BUILDING.”

Oswald is staring at it, reading the line over and over, a cold can of Monster pressed to his forehead.

One student seems to recognise him and takes a creepshot. Oswald doesn’t even bother. People come and go, good kids with sober faces, some of them wearing labcoats as they escape for a five minute cigarette break. The one who seems to be a surgeon surveys Oswald’s ankle with an uncomfortable interest. Oswald turns his back to him but still catches the predatory smile of the guy as he exhales smoke through his teeth.

“Ozzie!” Ed shouts; relieved, he faces him, and has to hold his breath, swallowing a tense ‘hello’ back.

Ed is running down the cracked marble stairs, jumping over the last three; he’s wearing a black leather apron over a white shirt, goggles pushed to his forehead, messing up his lovely hair. The yellow rubber gloves and the gasmask are also a great plus. He stumbles to Oswald, saying something like “you gonna love it,” but Oswald doesn’t hear him, he just grabs his crisp shirt and pulls him down for a bruising kiss. Ed moans into his mouth, surprised and deep.

“Hello gorgeous,” Oswald breaths.

They draw some moderate attention to themselves. Very well.

“Come along,” Ed says, wrestling away the can from Oswald. “I specifically told you to drink _water_ , silly.”

“Wait, wait, wait a minute.”

Ed halts immediately, and he adds with a satisfied purr:

“Lemme look at you.”

“I know, I know, it’s what we all wear in the morgue. This way.” Ed holds out his hand,  and Oswald takes it, intertwining their fingers. The gloves are covered in some kind of rough dust, and it thrills Oswald to think what it might be. He can feel Surgeon Guy staring as he climbs the stairs, leaning on Ed, but he doesn’t care. He’s got Ed’s hand in his hand.

The corridor’s cool air is a welcome relief and he lets out a long sigh. Ed chuckles.

“Got you some Aleve and Blowfish.”

“You’ve got any weed?”

“I don’t, but I can get some anytime. Does it usually help?”

“It’s more like craving,” Oswald shrugs. Ed leans down, sliding his palm into Oswald’s back pocket.

“I crave _you_ ,” he whispers, pressing a quick kiss to the corner of Oswald’s lips.

“It’s kinda fucking mutual. You look addictive. I could just take and take and take you.”

Ed audibly swallows.

“So you like me wearing this?” he asks casually, and squeezes Oswald’s ass.

“You haven’t noticed my raging medical fetish? Oh, baby.”

 

The corpse is very ugly.

Ed insists that it’s a seventeen-something girl, but Oswald can’t bring himself to believe that. The dotted push-up bra it died in seems morbidly out of place. Ed cuts it off the corpse with trauma shears, explaining:

“See? The acid almost completely destroyed Cooper's ligaments and the mammary gland lobules.”

Oswald doesn’t ask how it happened. That doesn’t matter.  The ruined meat has its own kind of beauty, like a Rebecca Fenton painting, just some thick brushes as the body is twisted out of its own anatomy.

The room is huge and very cold. Harsh neons illuminate the columns and the chromic metal surfaces, and spread out on them, motionless bodies are lying, waiting. They’re all around them. Some of them are floating in formaldehyde tanks.

The smell is the same as at the butcher’s.

Ed’s fingers are covered in shreds of meat and blood.

Oswald is watching him do his magic, dissecting the food pipe and the lungs, following the way of the acid, and time to time, Ed stops to say, “fascinating.”

Oswald is leaning on the table and a sudden whim takes him, almost like an epiphany: he wants Ed to be like this forever, he wants to be able to stop this moment and observe the curious, consuming light in Ed’s eyes for an eternity.

He has no idea why Ed wanted him here, but bearing witness to such blazing beauty makes such a question irrelevant.

He looks at the corpse, the remains of a human being, and he pities it for it cannot see the artistic lines the scalpel cuts into it skin, for it stares at Ed’s face with foggy eyes and it means nothing to it.

On the other side of the room, the heavy door creaks. The sound of sneaking high heels echo through the pillars.

They both glance towards the door, surprised in the act. Lee looks back at them.

“Hi,” she says desperately.

She closes the door like she’s just committed breach of domicile. She probes around, teetering on her heels. Then, she shows obstinacy, sneaking closer.

She pulls a face at Ed.

“You guys shouldn’t be here.”

“Neither should you,” Ed grins.

Lee shrugs, returning the privy smile.

“I won’t tell on you if you won’t tell on me.”

She claps her hands as she steps next to them, peeking at the corpse above Oswald’s shoulder.

“Let me see her. She’s the acid girl, right?”

“Yupp.”

“Ah. Such a beauty, such a pity. May I, Doctor?”

Lee takes her gloves out of her skirt’s pockets. Her eyes are glowing as she puts the steril mask on.

“After you, Doctor.”

“Lend me a dissector? I don’t have mine on me. It could’ve sliced my skirt.”

The dissector happens to be on the table right next to Oswald. He peeks at it. For a minute, he hesitates, then he grabs the cool metal, handing it to Lee.

“Here you go,” he chirps, acknowledging Lee’s half-hearted “ _thanks_ ” with a nod.

Lee looks him up and down, maybe out of sheer habit. She soon turns to the corpse, busying herself with work. Ed, on the other side of the table, is also leaning above the corpse. His nose almost touches the corpse’s exposed superior lobe of the left lung.

Oswald is staring at them for a while, listening to a foreign tongue (Ed and Lee started to communicate with a weird cavalcade of English and Latin words), then, he gets bored. He waddles away, to the nearby table, not so far from Ed’s back.

At first glance, it looks fine. Oswald’s nails click on the sparking metal. Suddenly, the lights are too bright.

“Hey, er. Is this thing clean?”

Ed speaks rapidly, without even turning back.

“Every empty table is completely aseptic, that’s the instruction, we must sterilize them before and after every use.”

“Cool.”

Oswald clings to the edges, pushing himself up, flouncing. His back pocket’s snap knocks on the metal. The sound echoes. Oswald hisses like he’d coughed in church.

“Oops. Sorry.”

No one listens to him. Oswald doesn’t care. He enjoys the sticky-cool air in his throat, the hollow silence sliced by tinkling of metals and scratching of the neon tubes. He entwines his ankles, leaning ahead to peek at Ed’s work. He catches Lee’s eyes: she glances away, remorsefully, like it was an accident.

An accident for the twentieth time.

Ed is focused on the corpse with all his nerves. Oswald is focused on him. The raw rubber hides his beautiful fingers, but Oswald recognises them just by the way they move. He imagines himself biting into them as Ed is forcing them down his throat, rough, making him choke while he is fucking him on this table. He would bite into Ed’s lips too, to make them bleed. The kiss would taste metallic and empty and sweet, the table under his bare scapulas would feel hard and cold.

Something clatters, startling Oswald. He presses his thighs together. Ed turns to him, frightened, mouth agape.

“What’s up?” Oswald croaks.

Lee’s hand slows down, her glance is unfocused.

Ed giggles desperately, stepping in front of Oswald. He tilts his head, hiding his dirty gloves behind his back.

“It’s fascinating, isn’t it?”

The last word sticks in his throat. Oswald sneers, caressing through the leather with one tender fingertip. Ed goes on, hurriedly and hopelessly:

“I’m so sorry that I just-”

“It’s fine.” Oswald presses a kiss on his lips to shut him up. “Mind one body at a time,” he purrs. Ed puffs, calming down. Oswald is staring at him solemnly. “You’re so sweet when you’re indulged in your mission. It’s nice to see. I’m perfectly fine, so chill the fuck out.”

Ed beams, and his eyes darken.

“Would you like to try?”

He sways the dissector in front of Oswald’s nose. Oswald slowly blinks.

“Wait, what?”

“Try it. I’ll guide you. It will be fine.”

“Err, okay.”

Oswald crawls down with a clash, wobbling back to the dead girl. Lee is now staring at them baldly, with a huge smile. She gets out of the way. She reaches under the table with her foot, pulling out a short chair. She sits down in her own half.

“The coast is clear,” she says. “Just… leave something for the seniors.”

“No promises,” Oswald mumbles, snatching the dissector from Ed.

He hesitates, twirling it between his fingers. Ed steps behind him, nestling close. He hugs Oswald with one arm. Oswald feels Ed’s knee between his legs, his sharp jaw he rests on Oswald’s shoulder. His hair touches his earlobe. Oswald is giddy, grabbing the table for balance, hoping it’s just a symptom of the hangover.

Ed’s hot breath is burning his neck. He smoothes Oswald’s hand with his palm, guiding his hand where he left.

“Careful,” Ed whispers. Oswald presses his lips together. “Don’t cut too deep. Keep your wrist tight.”

Somewhere, on the edge of his consciousness, Oswald can see himself obeying. Ed’s orders are throbbing inside his chest. His hand is moving, he leaves carmine paths on the skin.

His heart is beating like crazy. It _is_ crazy.

He starts chattering to hide his embarrassment, and he knows that he’s all too eager.

“By the way, I was sent a link yesterday. Fish is bitching about me again. She mentioned you, you know?”

Lee’s heels knock on the ground. Ed doesn’t stop, only hums.

“I’ve been spammed with it. I haven’t watched it, I simply noted that I’ll soon have a fan club of wannabe saviors.” Ed peeks at him. “Are you okay?”

“Sure.”

“I thought it may make you-”

“Well it didn’t.”

“You promised you’d tell me immediately.”

“And I didn’t say anything cause I was fine.” He shrugs. “It’s starting to be so fucking boring. Just like everyone else, she thinks that you’ll soon break up with me.”

Ed giggles, finally stopping. He puts the dissector away, entwining their fingers. He kisses into Oswald’s neck.

“So they say,” he breathes, kissing him again.

Oswald turns back to him, tilting his head. His eyes are misty and deep, and his voice is raspy:

“I’m just a fucking excuse of a punk, didn’t you know?”

Ed captures his lips, his smile smudges their kiss. Ed whispers into his mouth:

“Of course I knew. That’s why I wanted to go out with you.”

Lee sneezes. According to her panic, it was actually accidental.

“Bless you,” Oswald mumbles, letting Ed’s hand go.

Ed repeats Oswald’s words, casually, tearing the gloves off.

“Thank you,” Lee says, and her words feel heavy.

She waits a bit before she continues:

“I think you shouldn’t care about what others say. It’s none of their business. People will always find a way to hurt you, but if you have each other, it doesn’t matter. Right?”

Ed cheers up.

“You’re absolutely right!”

Oswald is staring at Lee for a long time, trying to figure her out. He doesn’t find anything that would make Lee his enemy.

He softens, and easily says:

“Yeah. You’re right.”

 

The bench slams into the locker. Oswald kicked it there so he can stand on it while making out with Ed in the mostly abandoned changing room. They’re about the same height like this, so he can savour Ed’s lips without craning his neck, he can fist his leather apron and pull him closer and deeper. Ed leans against him, palms flat on the locker, heaving chests pressed together as they keep nibbling and licking and biting.

The fucking gas mask is in the way.

Oswald pulls back and puts it on Ed, kissing him like this, lapping at the cold and bitter metal. He looks Ed in the eye, pupils blown and dark. With a wet sigh, he lets the gasmask fall back in place again and asks him:

“What is this for anyway?”

“Been sawing bones.”

Ed pushes closer and Oswald reaches for his shoulders; Ed gets hold of his wrists and pins them to the locker. Oswald goes pliant underneath his weight, letting him kiss him however he pleases, lightheaded and  fucking eighteen again. Ed is grinding against him and he meets each thrust with a shaky, needy moan.

“Come on, come on-”

 

 **Oswald Cobblepot** @xXxThEpEnGuInxXx 5 m

Sorry @fish_mooney i can’t hear you over the sound of my boyfriend slamming me against the wall #justthewayilikeit

 

“How much do you got?”

“Three grams. Is it enough?”

Oswald stretches his legs on the stairs of the fire escape to make place for Ed. He knocks his shoes together, licking his lips.

“Yeah, sure. I’m mixing with tobacco anyway.”

It darkens smoothly; lumpy, rain-grey clouds crawl before the setting sun, and the winds turn.

Ed sits right next to him, their thighs touching. Ed is balancing a fiver bill on his knees, drizzling the weed and the tobacco onto it. Oswald is staring at him, languidly, leaning onto the cool bars. Ed is folding the filter tip, tearing an index card. He rolls Oswald a thick joint, holding it to him like it’s his Magnum Opus.

“Here you go.”

Oswald takes the joint, smelling it with a tender smile. He sighs, hunting for a lighter in his pockets. His hat’s brim casts a deep shadow over his freckles.

“You’re a professional,” he says as a thank you.

The lighter clicks and the rice paper glows. Oswald takes a long drag, tightening his lungs. He tries to hand the joint to Ed, but he holds both his hands up.

“I’m good, thank you.”

“Right,” Oswald grumbles with held breath. “You’re not the type.”

“Weed wouldn’t agree with my state of mind, I’m afraid.”

“Don’t breathe in, then.”

Oswald curls his lips. He lets the tufty smoke out between his teeth. Ed turns to face him, lacing his fingers on his lap. Oswald mocks him. Now, their knees are huddled up, and Oswald starts to waggle them. Ed doesn’t return his grin.

“Hey, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I’m just exhausted. You know I woke up at five in the morning.”

“Shall I leave you be?”

Ed is finally smiling, his glance softening when he reaches out to stroke Oswald’s thigh.

“Don’t you dare.”

“At some point, I gotta.”

Oswald takes another drag, holding his breath for over a minute. He seems like he’s wandering, focusing on the dirty-lit sky over Ed’s shoulder. He palpates his teeth with the tip of his tongue and suddenly, he peeks down to his leg.

“My thigh is pulsing,” he says detachedly, breathing out slowly.

“Excuse me?”

“First symptom, look at it, it’s pulsing.” He is turning the joint in hand, pouting approvingly. “That’s good stuff.”

“Well, I won’t give you rubbish.”

“Cause you’re cute.”

Oswald’s compliment catches Ed off guard. He’s pleasantly surprised, staring at him with flaming curiosity. Ed tilts his head, softly arching his eyebrows. His smile is fading, but the corner of his mouth twitches like he’d try to swallow back a giggle. Oswald is staring back at him with the joint in his mouth for a long time, peaky-faced.

Swiftly, he leans close, reaching out to slide his fingertips behind Ed’s glasses, on his closed eyelids. Ed chuckles, blindly kissing Oswald’s wrist.

“Is everything alright?”

“You’re frustrating me. With your eyes.”

“Am I?”

Oswald can feel Ed’s teeth on his skin. He draws back his hand. Ed, instead of adjusting his glasses, takes them off: he hooks their side into the pocket of his shirt.

Oswald bites into his lower lip.

“What does that mean exactly?”

“You’re psychoanalyzing me, aren’t you? Well, don’t. There’s no, like, disturbance of my consciousness, only my thigh is pulsing.”

He takes the last drag, dropping and stomping on the filter. The sparks look like fireworks. Oswald is nuzzling, leaning on the bars with his back. He squints at Ed, catching his inquiring look.

“You’ve got wrinkles around your eyes. You’re so enjoying yourself.”

Oswald breathes out the smoke of the last drag, slowly, idly: the tuft is pouring from his lips. Ed faintly shrugs, whispering:

“I have to admit, I’m interested in the outcomes.”

Oswald takes his hat off, offended, throwing it towards the open window. He succeeds, the hat lands inside Ed’s dorm room.

“Yaay.” He closes his eyes, then shoots them open. “Naay.”

Ed straightens.

“Hm?”

“How am I gonna get home?”

“We’ll figure something out.”

“Fine, but-”

“Don’t worry about it, sweetheart,” Ed gently grabs Oswald’s crooked ankle. He breathes: “Come closer.”

Ed spreads his legs, lifting his left foot to the next step, so Oswald can nuzzle close to him, between his thighs. He packs his legs up to Ed’s leg. For a moment, he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. He hugs Ed’s back with one hand and he simply drops the other.

“I’m here,” he informs Ed. Ed laughs. “Now what?”

Ed sucks on his lips, squinting at Oswald in the carmine of the twilight.

Oswald swallows back his snappy comment. He swallows back everything. His shoulders dwindle, the shadows deepen on his neck. Ed is waiting patiently while Oswald’s glance is chaining him, mapping him, feature by feature, with mesmeric amaze. He caresses through Ed’s cheekbone with one trembling fingertip.

“Interesting,” he hums, stopping by Ed’s lips.

“What is interesting, Ozzie?”

“Say that again.”

“What?”

“Not that. The other one.”

“Ozzie?”

Oswald giggles, cupping Ed’s cheeks with both palms. He bites into Ed’s lower lip.

“How the hell are you doing that? You can taste my name on your tongue and I can taste it on mine when you’re saying it, I feel it in my everything, in my blood. It’s creepy as duck. Fuck. Like fuck. Let’s test it. Say my name again.”

Ed leans closer in response, kissing him. Oswald moans loud, his voice coming from his chest. He roughly grabs Ed’s cock through his pants. Ed hisses, biting into Oswald’s tongue. He draws back. Oswald’s panting smirk sticks to Ed’s teeth.

“It’ll do,” Oswald murmurs.

Ed grips his wrist, warning him. Oswald doesn’t care: his palm crawls higher on his abdomen.

“By the way, you’re totally pulling my nerves here. I’m finally understanding everything about you, about us. Being so perfect is a fucked up crime. Can I look at you forever? Would you mind? You’re so much more than I’ve thought. Fuck, Eddie, why are you doing this to me?”

Oswald’s voice cracks with anger. Ed freezes when Oswald snuggles even closer, pressing his whole body to his.

“I want to get lost inside of you. I want to rip your skin off, to live inside you, to tear you apart. It’s horrible. I’m head over heels for you, don’t you get it? Stop it. Let me be.”

Ed is nearly touching him, caressing him along his spine, slipping his fingers into his hair. Oswald writhes, fisting Ed’s shirt, biting into his neck violently. Ed groans and Oswald releases him, licking his marks.

“Stay with me like this. It’s nice. We should do this more often. Cuddling. Does it feel nice?”

“It does.”

“Are you happy?” Ed swallows dry. Oswald goes on: “I never ask myself that. I’m afraid of the answer. But I want to hear yours, whatever it would be. It matters. Did I say it out loud? I guess I did. Are you happy, Eddie?”

Ed’s thumb is stroking Oswald’s cheek, reaching his eyelashes. He kisses into his hair.

“Yes,” he breathes, and Oswald shivers. “You’re making me happy.”

Oswald laughs. It sounds like he’s sobbing. Ed cups his cheeks to look into his eyes and Oswald raises his chin. Ed’s thumb is on the ruins of his makeup.

“I’m already inside you,” he whispers. “Inside your eyes. You’re a jerk for trapping me, you know that? But don’t release me, I don’t want that. I would become wild, like that fox in that shit, you read that? You cannot tame me and let me go, that’s the moral of the story, because you take me in and if you leave me, I don’t know how to live. It’s such a terrifying thought, I don’t know why I like it. Shouldn’t I wish for that? It doesn’t matter anymore.”

Ed wraps himself into a melancholic silence. He is shaking his head, blinking rapidly, bottling up. Oswald claws into Ed’s neck, looking him deep in the eye. Ed looks back, and it feels like he can’t decide if he sees himself in Oswald’s eyes or Oswald, merging into someone he doesn’t want to change.

Oswald swallows. It feels like hot stones dipping down his throat.

“You’re so beautiful,” he breathes again. “I can’t bear it. I’ve fallen for you. I love you. I love you, I love you.”

Ed shivers like he’s been hit by lightning. He snaps away his hands, grabbing him by the shoulders, shoving him away. He is looking him up and down, frightened and furious. His eyes and his face are on fire, he clenches his teeth.

“Come,” he croaks rigidly, lifting Oswald into his arms.

“Do I deserve a fuck for what I’ve just said?”

“No. You’re going to sleep.”

“Am I staying here?”

“Yes. You’re completely high. I won’t let you go home until you’re yourself again.”

Ed climbs inside with Oswald in his arms, carrying him up the stairs, to the bed. He tosses Oswald on the bed, hard and rough. He undresses him mutely, mechanically, with icy fingers. Oswald giggles. Ed’s glance is cruel, slicing into his heart.

Every blink feels like an eternity. When Oswald closes his eyes, he’s devoured by the darkness. Opening his eyes feels like waking up, again and again. Ed’s face is close at first, hovering over him, his scent slapping Oswald in the face. He disappears, then comes back to focus again, sitting by his desk.

Later, he’s watching him with glistening, harsh eyes and Oswald doesn’t have any strength left to say something.

Darkness crawls back into his mouth and eyes, and it gets so, so cold.

 

Oswald wakes with a suffocating sound, coughing as he’s emerging from the lightless water of his dreams. He stills, starting at an unfamiliar ceiling, and for a brief moment, he panics.

The sheets are cold and wet from his sweat, sticking to his back. He hears soft rustling and scratching. Glowing circles of lights appear on the wall, and it takes him a while to realise that it’s the jumping light of a torch. His vision clears, slowly, the forms sharpening and gaining meaning.

He’s in Ed’s bed, in nothing but his briefs. Ed’s not with him.  

With trembling arms, he pushes himself up, and once sitting, pulls the blanket over his shoulders.

He looks at his left; he could touch the ugly writing desk occupied by Ed’s notes. Ed’s sitting there, torch pressed between his chin and shoulder, and scribes away. Oswald reaches out his left leg and slides his cold foot under Ed’s white shirt, making him jump.

“Hey,” Oswald croaks, “whatcha doin’?”

“Go back to sleep,” Ed whispers. “I’m studying.”

“What for? What’s the time?”

“Dunno. Four. Got an anatomy final on Tuesday. No biggie.”

Oswald frowns, and Ed turns to him, finally, holding up the torch, making Oswald squint.

“Feeling better?” he asks, then corrects himself: “How are you?”

Oswald pulls down the skin under his eye.

“My pupils are not dilated.”

Ed aims the torchlight away from his face, apologetic. Oswald hugs his legs to his chest, staring at Ed’s bumpy, bare knees.

“Wanna take a study break?”

Ed scoffs.

“No, I’m in the middle of something.”

Post-it notes are spread all over the desk, sticked to books and agendas and Ed’s laptop and even to a sad cactus.

“Oh, sorry for holding you up. I see that you’re _visibly_ busy.”

“Don’t do that. Would you like some water?”

“Sorry. Yeah.”

Ed puts the torch on a pile of binders and hands Oswald a lukewarm glass.

Oswald swallows down the water which makes his mouth all the more bitter. Ed’s staring at his own hands resting in his lap and jumps again when Oswald clicks the glass to his teeth.

“Will you just fucking tell me what’s the matter, or does sulking solve all your problems?”

“Don’t start,” Ed asks, and Oswald tsks.

“I’m not the one being a fucking child,” he notes and swirls the water around in the glass as if it was brandy. Ed shakes his head.

“Please, just don’t. It’s not the right time to discuss why you keep saying things you don’t mean.”

Oswald grimaces and puts the glass on the floor.

“What do you mean?”

Ed sighs, dramatically, and starts massaging the bridge of his nose, maybe trying to chase away a headache.

“Alright.” He looks Oswald in the eye, looking so tired as if he might collapse. “I did not enjoy listening to your influenced rambling. I’m well aware that you don’t take these matters as seriously as I do, so just…” He takes a shaky breath. “Just let me be. Will you?”

Oswald tilts his head, mapping the dark shadows under Ed’s eyes. He sniffs, and very carefully, he says:

“Look, you’re exhausted. It’s been a very, very long day. Just come to bed, okay?”

Ed puckers his lips. Oswald chides him:

“Eddie, I’d be really happy to discuss everything in the morning, but you need to rest first. You’re overthinking stuff and you’re beginning to be irrational and erratic. Take it easy.”

“Don’t tell me what to do. Not you.”

“Fuck you.”

Ed buries his face into his palms, and moans. His glasses slide up to his forehead.

“Look, Ozzie, it’s _really_ not the right time…”

“That’s what I’m saying, so shut up and come and sleep.”

“Stop patronizing me!” Ed snaps, and Oswald chuckles.

“Oh, I’m sorry. That’s your favorite thing to do, isn’t it? I shouldn’t be a fucking copycat.”

“Now you’re just being mean.”

“And you’re being hysteric!”

Ed turns back to his studies.

“So I’m being hysteric. Okay,” he concludes, and shrugs his shoulder. He gets hold of a pen.

“You are, and…”

“I told you to leave me be,” Ed barks. “If you don’t want to go back to sleep on your own, that’s okay, and if you don’t want to talk with me, that’s okay as well, because I don’t want to talk with you either. Get a book or get your phone, the wifi password is mothatewords, or I can offer you a lift home, but I really don’t want to talk about this and I really need to study.”

“You know what you need?” Oswald asks, kicking off the blanket. “You need to take your head out of your pretty ass, because it’s buried there deep.”

Ed doesn’t say anything, just follows him with his gaze. Oswald peeks at a mindmap from behind Ed’s shoulders, and announces:

“I’m going to take a piss, and by the time I return, I expect you’ll have gotten a hold of yourself.” He cups Ed’s chin, and makes him turn towards him, spitting: “Man up.”

Ed pushes his hand away, angry and disappointed, and turns away like a child who got slapped. Oswald’s hand hits the desk with surprising force, and the skin cracks over his knuckles. Ed hisses:

“Don’t _ever_ say that.”

Oswald sniffs, and shaking his bleeding hand he turns to the stairs. As he descends, suddenly the creak of his faltering steps sound like humiliation and defeat, for the first time in years. He’s grinding his teeth, biting on words which he shouldn’t say.

The bathroom is right under the gallery. Oswald limps into it and slams the sorry excuse of a door with satisfying force.

 

As he takes a leak, the scribbled words on the walls are looming in the dark. His reflection in the mirror is just a silhouette without depth. He’s fucking 2D.

He hold his hand under the tap, running cold water. His bruise is still bleeding. The burn mark above his heart starts itching. He clenches his fist, hitting the mark with his bloody knuckles.

He leans under the tap. The water is rippling through his hair, neck, and shoulders: he splashes some drops onto his face, drawing back. The tap is still running.

He claws into the wash-bowl, throwing his head back. The splashing drops are drizzling onto his briefs, making him shiver.

 

He limps out, resting his bruised hand on the doorframe. He stares up at Ed, at the orb of light on the ceiling. Oswald sets his jaw, stepping by the stairs. He knocks on the rail, impatiently.

“Where are my clothes?” he spits.

Ed shoves something on the table, smacking sharply. He starts from his chair with a growl, almost tearing out the drawer of the nightstand. He’s tinkering away at something, then he grabs all Oswald’s clothes. He scratches them, tossing them over the rail without even looking at him.

Oswald doesn’t try to catch his clothes. They fall onto the steps and his feet, and he’s watching the whole fucking scene with burning eyes.

“You actually are a fucking child,” he snarls, snatching his pants, pulling them up, stumbling.

Ed doesn’t say anything. He clings to the rail, staring down at Oswald. His features are tense, waxed.

“Are you leaving?” he asks. His voice is empty and hoarse, maybe disappointed.

Oswald wreaks upon him.

“There’s no fucking way I’m staying in the same room with you now. Please accept my sincere and honest apologies.”

Ed nods, leaning forth. He rests his chin on his right palm.

“That’s your way of dealing with men, isn’t it?”

Oswald freezes. He straightens his back, slowly and threateningly, grinding his shirt in his hand.

“What do you mean by that, _honey_?”

Ed shrugs and pouts. His eyes don’t soften, neither does his voice:

“You rush in, taking whatever you want, leaving with style. Like a one-night stand.”

“Don’t you dare talk to me like that!”

Ed shrugs again. He crosses his legs, watching Oswald put on his shirt. His naked skin is glowing in the dark, blue and black. His spine is a through of a wave, his chest is heaving.

“I don’t want to forbear with you, either,” Ed finally says, incidentally. “Among other things, I won’t let you play foul with me.”

“‘Play _foul’_?!” Oswald lashes out, spreading his arms. “Do enlighten me, my so-called one-night stand, what the fuck am I doing to you that’s _so_ unbearable?”

Oswald knows how ridiculous it is to brawl from the two sides of the room. He’s not willing to step closer.

Ed licks his lips, tilting his head. His glasses reflect the dim lights: Oswald can’t see his eyes anymore.

“I gave you my everything, Oswald. I don’t care that you never repay me for my favors, I don’t care that you’re incapable of it, I don’t care-”

“You’re such a caring guy,” Oswald cuts in, and Ed growls:

“When I’m talking, you shut your dirty mouth.”

“I’ll decide that for myself, thank you very much.”

“I refuse to accept that you’re being dishonest with me. If you’re not in love with me, that’s perfectly fine, but using my feelings against-”

“But I love you, for fuck’s sake!” Oswald howls. “What the fuck are you talking about? Pull yourself together, cause you’re totally going out of your goddamn mind. I _told_ you when-”

“When you were manipulating me,” Ed hisses, stretching his neck like he could spit into Oswald’s face. “Do you think I didn’t know why you did it? Do you really think I’m that stupid? How you were playing with me on the pier? You’re using me, manipulating me.” He giggles. It sounds soulless and toneless. “You’re telling me that you love me when it has an influence on me - or when you’re influenced by a certain something. I get it: you are who you are. Maybe you actually are incapable of love. Maybe I’m a lunkhead. I’m telling you again, that’s not the problem, it’s just hurts like hell. I’m not willing to fight for a relationship alone, if that’s what you even want. I’m not letting you make use of me. I’m not letting you play with me. I’m not letting you think that you can do whatever the hell you want to me, just because I’m in love with you and you can easily break my heart.”

Oswald steps closer, shivering, huffing. He also grabs the rail. The skin around his bruises lightens up. Oswald takes a long, trembling breath before he throws his head back.

“You hysterical bitch.”

“ _You-_ ”

“Shut the fuck up. You have no right to accuse me of anything. You overanalyze me. You’re fucking blind as a bat, building up your own little fantasy where everything should go the way you want it. Guess what, bitch - life doesn’t work that way. People won’t answer your every fucking requirement. I’m giving you everything I can, but if you can’t trust me even when I tell the truth, then we do have a problem, and the problem is  _you_.”

Ed smacks on the rail, shouting:

“Don’t blame it on me. I’m the one who’s getting hurt by you, I’m the one who suffers your cruelty, I’m the one who is played by a cold. Hearted. Bitch.”

“So that’s how you wanna play?”

Ed grunts, scratching into the rail. His knees bend as he leans his forehead on his hand.

“It’s like you’re not even listening to me. I don’t want to play anymore. It should’ve never turned out this way.”

“You started it, dragging me all the way down!” Oswald climbs the stairs with trembling and rattling steps.

Ed shatters and shatters with every step Oswald takes, gripping the rail with whitening fingers.

Oswald stops on the highest step. He hesitates, grumbling at Ed:

“At least look at me when I’m talking to you.”

Ed peeks up at him above his glasses. His glance is menacingly dark and deep. Oswald swallows, teetering.

“Do you think I have nothing better to do than chase after a stuck-up prick like you? I could fuck basically any fan I want and I still chose you. Because I want you.”

“Didn’t you run out of guys?” Ed snarls, head still down.

Oswald howls again:

“Fuck you! Fuck you and your fucking expectations. Do you really think I’m not good enough for you? Do you agree with every cunt on the internet, bitching about me being the cruel one? I’m not cruel, Edward Nygma. Not as much as you are.”

Ed almost whines:

“Blaming it on me again, will you ever understand what I’m telling you? I’m tired of being an investment, okay? Everything you do and every word you say has an agenda, and I’m tired of it all. It’s boring. Boring, boring, boring. All your secrets; all your confessions; it’s all sand you blow into my eyes and you don’t even-”

“Oh, I understand. I understand it all.”

“Do you even know how it feels to keep falling for people who _never-_ ”

“I’m not like those fucking people, Ed. That’s the point of the whole shit. You keep judging me, you keep forcing me into a rate I don’t belong to.”

Ed suddenly straightens, leaping closer. He grabs Oswald by his shirt, shoving him closer. Oswald stumbles over the last step, bumping against Ed’s chest.

Ed whispers into his face:

“Because you’ve never done anything to get out of there. This is where you belong. In the trash, with the others, with those who took me for a fool-”

Oswald slaps him. Hard.

Ed’s glasses slip to the tip of his nose. He turns back to Oswald with fulminant eyes and Oswald grips his neck to stop him. His fingers tighten around Ed’s neck, making him gasp for air.

Oswald’s voice is dangerously calm.

“None of this is true, and you know it. You’re making a scene. Clear your head, my love. Being someone’s boyfriend is not a job _._ You don’t have duties or a fucking quota for saying I love you. And I’m perfectly capable of solving my own problems. I don’t _need_ you. I just want you, and I want you bad.”

Oswald lets go of Ed’s neck with a push. Ed gasps for air, letting Oswald go as well, kneading his throat. He shakes his head, croaking:

“I don’t believe you. I’m sorry. I can’t trust a liar.”

Oswald’s blood is guttering in his veins, cold and slow. He is shaking all over, he feels like his body is too close to give up, to let him drop on the floor.

He manages to mutter:

“That is not my problem.”

Ed starts to cry. He’s turning away, throwing himself on the bed, stooping, hiding his face into his palms. Oswald can’t hear him crying, but he _knows_ , because Ed’s breath is rugged and wet, and his shoulders are trembling.

He’s just standing there, hand reached out and throat tightened, wishing for himself to disappear.

“I better go now,” he croaks. Ed doesn’t say anything to that. Oswald curls his fingers, lets his hand drop, and walks away.

He’s got no idea where he put his hat, his sunglasses or his phone, but nothing matters anymore.

He goes downstairs and crosses the room. He steps into his unlaced boots, shoulders tense. He’s ready to turn back any moment, but he doesn’t. He pushes the door open. The corridor smells of disinfectant, and the sharp scent is making him squint.

He closes the door, and as the lock clicks, he can hear a faint whimper.

He drags himself through the building, heart sinking, stomach shaking. He wants to throw up.

The reception is closed, of course, and the doors are bolted. Oswald staggers around and around in shapeless circles, the lobby swimming before his eyes. He needs to get out. He grabs a chair, frenzied and desperate, and throws it at the nearest window. There’s a satisfying crash. He climbs out, and no alarm sounds.

He cuts his calf on a shred of glass, and it’s making his limp worse as he’s waddling down the path. He climbs the slippery fence. He’s leaving this place like a robber would flee the scene, but he - he’s got nothing.

The parking lot is a ten minute’s walk away. He’s staring at the concrete.

The car’s lock beeps too loud. He throws himself on the seat and slams the door. He starts the engine and music begins to play; it’s at the chorus,  _[and why did you say that things shall fall and fall and fall apart.](https://youtu.be/F_S8bPXK8ao) _ Oswald’s hand trembles on the ignition key.

So he’s sitting there, and cries like an idiot, cries his heart out and hits the wheel.

He throws his head back and shouts.

Around him, there’s silence and the waking sun’s brilliance.

It’s a new day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry.
> 
> Our sweet beta was [ Julie](http://readytoocomply.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Find us on tumblr: [ captaincuppy](http://captaincuppy.tumblr.com/) //[ longstoryshortikilledhim](http://longstoryshortikilledhim.tumblr.com/)
> 
> We've got an [ 8tracks mix](http://8tracks.com/for_autumn_i_am/long-nights-red-flags) of punk/dark goodness & [some sexy edits](http://longstoryshortikilledhim.tumblr.com/tagged/boyfriendtagfic)
> 
> Chapter 6 is on its way!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, so, so sorry for the unannounced hiatus - life got in the way, but now we got a 13k update and some fantastic surprises in the endnotes. Thank you for your patience!

When Oswald wakes up, everything seems to be okay. When he wakes and his first thought is of Ed, for a moment he doesn’t understand why his chest tightens. He rolls to his side, humming, and stretches. 

He’s not lying in bed. 

The memories of the dawn spill over his mind like ink, tainting it, and suddenly there’s no point moving and no point waking.

He’s on the fucking leather couch again. He thought it was a sweet deal when he got it imported from Italy, a real antique, but considering that he finds himself spreading over it every time he wishes he’d be dead he should’ve bought a coffin instead.

He’s got no patience for self-pity, so he sits up with a violent push. His dangling leg knocks over an unidentified bottle of booze. Scowling, he kicks into it and it rolls away, too loud. Oswald watches it hitting the edge of the carpet, and he’s determined that it cannot continue like this. He doesn’t need scenes.

So he makes his Friday pretty busy. 

He does his laundry for once, and then he puts on latex gloves, not thinking about Ed’s hands, and scrubs every available surface until his arm aches. He’d have some music on a normal day, but he can’t find his phone and he keeps away from his laptop.

He vacuums and mops the whole apartment, but he’s avoiding the bedroom. Then he gets just about fed up with being a coward, kicks in the door, grabs the beddings and shoves them into the linen basket. Future Oswald will deal with them later. 

He’s having tea with tinned sardine.

No one fucking eats tinned sardine after a fight. Breaking hearts calls for ice cream and chocolate, but he’s forking the slimy fishes out of the smelly can, and he’s about to throw up by the last one, but he swallows it down anyway. It’s okay.

When he logs in, it’s to prove himself. He dresses first, styles his hair, gets some Dr. Pepper from the fridge, and gets rid of the penguin plushie. It’s still sitting on his desk like nothing’s happened, so Oswald seizes it and throws it into the linen basket.

He wobbles back to the laptop and wastes half an hour on Spotify to find some upbeat shit he doesn’t actively despise.

The funfair vlog had a damn good run, the gifsets are already up. He’s scrolling past them, but one makes him stop; it’s of the tiny question mark on Ed’s wrist which past-him kisses with adoration, pressing his lips to the blue veins. As he looks up on the gif, his gaze is naked and open. If Ed couldn’t see it, then he needs new glasses and a new heart-

He scrolls past.

He doesn’t blacklist anything.

It’s not _ over _ . It’s just put on a hold, and it’s not fair that whether it crumbles or continues will depend solely on him. 

His throat feels raw. He wants a smoke, he’s been yearning for one for hours, but he’s only got the vanilla cigarettes Ed rolled for him.

 

He’s reblogging some shit. He’s pretty much running his blog on autopilot now. He comes across the same gifset over and over again, with slightly different versions. It seems to be from Jim Gordon’s newest video, which he doesn’t really give a shit about anymore. Jim’s ranting and he’s got some stock photo in a background with two guys holding hands. But one of the gifsets is different; it’s longer, with sixteen-seventeen-something pictures, and there they are, there they fucking are, Ed and Oswald in the background from Ed’s latest profile picture. Oswald wonders whether he will change it, whether he already did it.  Hysterical laughter bubbles up in his stomach as he watches himself practically licking Ed’s face who’s looking directly into the camera with a grin which says  _ I’m the luckiest man ever _ .

 

**Gay is not an insult | Jim_Gordon**

 

Jim is sitting in front of a neutral green screen, wearing a navy blue shirt. His features are resolute and weary. He straightens his spine, resting his palms on the wooden tabletop.

After a toneless “hello, everyone”, Jim Gordon presses his lips together. When he finally speaks, his words are snapping and biting.

The fucking alpha male of social justice warriors.

The cursor is hovering. Oswald snorts and starts clicking on the bar, catching only fragments of what Jim is saying:  _ completely unacceptable, we can stop this, inhuman and unethical _ , all the bullshit he can come up with over and over again.

The picture of him and Ed pops up. Oswald freezes. He’s staring at it while Jim pokes towards it; Jim’s words are buzzing in his ear like radio statics. 

“-cannot have an influence on how we think of the person,” Jim states, taking a sighing breath. “We have a fresh example of this occurrence. Let me tell you about Oswald Cobblepot and Edward Nygma, also known as the Penguin and the Riddler. Two YouTubers who recently came out, announcing their relationship. Since then, they’ve been attacked with countless numbers of hate comments.”

Around Jim, examples flare up with popping sound effects: tweets and tumblr posts, comments from Facebook and YouTube.  Oswald doesn’t bother peeking at them: still, Jim is waiting for his audience to read them before he strictly says:

“This must be stopped.”

Oswald grumbles at the screen. Jim continues, and he’s fucking hitting the ceiling.

“To keep clear of misunderstandings, I could also say lots of things about Cobblepot. As you may know, I have already done it in the past.”

Oswald snarls.

“What he’s doing with his  _ Burn Baby Burn _ series is offensive. What he’s doing to others is offensive. Hell, he’s even worse than all of his haters,  _ but _ : the fact that he’s gay and is currently in a relationship with another man is completely unrelated to this issue. I’d like to highlight the fact that I personally know both of these guys, and I’m well aware of their faults and mistakes and bad characteristics. Oswald Cobblepot is obscene, his cruelty is purposeless; he’s as toxic as the people attacking them now. But nobody deserves this.”

Oswald’s eyelashes flutter as their picture appears on the screen again. Jim’s voice fades as Ed’s smudgy pixel grin is luring his glance.    
  
Jim continues with something like “YouTube is a merciless battlefield” and “why is attaching masculinity is a sensitive spot” and “homosexuality does not hurt any gender” or something.

“Back to my point: what Penguin and Riddler did was not revolutionary, but still brave in such a harsh community.  _ This  _ is not their weakness. I do hope this video helps the attackers realize that what they’re doing is wrong and harmful.”

Oswald’s heard enough. He clicks on the X, and the browser shuts down with a flash.  
  


222 likes        1 h   
oswald_cobblepot :p #bellyselfie #givemethenight #trash #grunge #followme #oswaldcobblepot  
  


The picture shows Oswald’s stomach, his bones’ curved V is highlighted with harsh, black and white filtered contrast. He tears into his own skin with badly painted nails; his tendons stretch.

 

As soon as night falls, he’s out of the apartment, sporting his crop top and a heavily spiked leather jacket, ready to raise hell. Something cracks under the heel of his boot. He clings to the door handle and lifts his leg. His phone is lying on the mat. Spiderweb-cracks cover the screen. 

He takes a sharp inhale as he squats down. Ed was here. Ed was right here. He unlocks the phone, and gulps.

Ed’s changed his home screen. It’s a shitty aesthetic photo he kept in his folder, icefield.jpg, not the selfie they took together. 

“You bitch,” Oswald mouths. “You petty little fucker.”

He’s swallowing back angry tears as he rides the elevator.

  
  


The plan has changed. He meant to get a few drinks and smoke his lungs out in a rathole, but now he’s heading to the harbor on South Channel island.

It’s the home of his favored gay bar, the one with good music and absinthe, the one with the backrooms full of the hazed memories of his early twenties.

The ships are sighing in the darkness. 

The  _ Sebastian _ is anchored near the jetty, rocking on the gurgling waves. Oswald boards the sloop, and he’s welcomed by the heavy tunes of loud music, guitars hammering and the singer screaming. It’s a guys’ only night with the occasional drag queens and non-binaries who got admitted. They’re dancing like they’ve lost control; some of them are sitting by the round tables, some are swinging on the ropes or kissing under lush palm trees and a siren is on the stage, completely naked apart from his painted scales. 

Oswald orders green absinthe. 

“The real stuff,” he asks. “Yes to wormwood, no to antimony trichloride, I’m gonna  _ feel  _ it.”   


The bartender grins. 

“You’ celebratin’?”

Oswald smiles, too wide and creepy to be genuine. The sugarcubes are flaming so it’s quite complicated to wobble through the crowd with his drink in hand, but he manages.    


He drops to a scarlet couch below the bigass chandeliers. He decides that he’ll drink until the lights explode, but he’s only sipping on the absinthe, occasionally stirring it with the spoon, visibly bored.  

Someone takes a seat next to him, but he ignores him. He puts the glass away and fumbles with his cigarette; he can’t find the fucking lighter. Swearing, he searches his pockets again; the guy next to him offers him a pack of matches. 

Oswald finds comfort in the knowledge that the guy  _ must be  _ of legal age, the security is above average here, but his floppy brown hair and soft cheeks don’t really convince him, and neither does the  _ Courage the Cowardly Dog _ shirt he has on. Oswald takes a double take and realises that at least the guy’s tall with slim hips and thighs which go on for miles. 

Oswald puts the cigarette between his finger and his thumb, like he never does, and leans into the flame, swallowing down the smoke, adam’s apple bobbing. He keeps his lashes down. He exhales through his nose, and looks up at the guy with a calculatedly dreamy expression. 

“Hi.” 

“Hi, I’m Puck,” the guy who’s obviously not called Puck tells him as he inches closer.

Oswald plays coy and he doesn’t offer his name in return. If he ends up getting his cock sucked by this idiot, well, Ed had it coming, hadn’t he? Puck doesn’t meet his standards but he can tell that the poor soul is desparate as well.

That’s good. He can work with desperation. It’d take roughly five minutes to get him on his knees, and about ten to get him on his knees  _ right here. _

_ Let’s make it ten then,  _ Oswald thinks as he rests his palm on Puck’s inner thigh, as he was just balancing himself as he leant closer.

“Whatcha having?” Puck grins.

“What does it look like?” Oswald clicks his tongue. “Fairy pee.”

“Nah.” Puck slaps Oswald’s thigh with a playful smile, and grabs it; it’s Oswald’s lame leg, but he tries his damndest not to cringe. “I wanna buy you a drink.”

“You don’t need to pay for me.” He takes a slow drag of his cigarette. “And take my word on it, you won’t get laid by buying drinks for someone who already got his poison. Let’s be honest with each other, okay? Apparently, I need to practice that.” He grabs the backrest and looms closer, blowing the smoke into Puck’s face. “I want to fuck your mouth. You have really nice cocksucking lips. No one’s ever told you that?”

Puck shakes his head, flushing. Oswald peeks into his lap. Yeah, they’re getting there. 

He’d have to work harder for Ed. He’d challenge him. That’d be fun.

“No one’s ever told you that you have really nice cocksucking lips? Heh. Weird. But you must know you were made for sucking cock, don’t you? Lemme see how wide you can open up. Come on, lemme see.”

Puck falls for it and imitates a Pez-toy, and Oswald needs to bite down the cigarette so he won’t laugh out loud. He pats Puck’s face.

“Good boy. Hey, now that you’ve mentioned it, I just realised that I’m kinda thirsty.”

“What can I get you?” Puck asks, hoarse but still overly keen. Oswald narrows his eyes at him. 

“Champagne. Let’s have fucking champagne. Hurry back, please.”

As Puck jumps up, Oswald grabs his soft ass, squeezing it with all five fingers for good measure.

Puck does the walk of shame to the bar, hunched so nobody will notice his full-on hard on; like anyone would care about his sad little prick. 

Ed would deserve to be cheated on. He should wait for Puck to come back with their drinks, and give him head in full view, and then he’d just lay back, and he wouldn’t have to wait long for the next volunteer. He was always good in putting on a show. He’d make them love the preview. 

He drops the stub into the leftover absinthe. 

He’s got no urge whatsoever, but he does have a conscience, an inner voice telling him “ _ Cobblepot, just go home _ ,” so he stands on unsure legs.

The absinthe hasn’t done shit, and the loud music is getting on his nerves. He shoves anyone away who comes his way, fighting his way through the crowd.

The cool air of the harbor hits him in the chest. He takes a deep breath, and following the line of fairylights, fumbles for his broken phone with its lame home screen, and goes to his contact list. 

Ed changed his name to Edward Nygma on his fucking phone.

So. He should turn back. He should go back to the Sebastian and drink and fuck and find the guy who sells easy drugs and then fuck some more. 

But he’s heading to the subway. He gets on it. He tells himself that the next plan is to get wasted in Midtown, but he doesn’t get off when the stop comes. He catches sight of a green jacket, so he can’t do it, because his heart starts beating fucking fast and all he can think of is  _ Ed _ . 

_ Ed’s here, _ he tells himself just because he sees some lanky stranger in a lame jacket. He’s blonde. And he’s with his girlfriend. Oswald can’t stand to look at them.

  
  


When he gets home, he opens up believing that Ed’ll be there waiting for him, but the apartment is empty and silent.

He takes a shower to pass the time. The burnt scar is covered in yellow scab. He should probably do something about it. 

It’s barely past midnight but he puts a clean-ish shirt on and heads to bed. He rolls to the left side of the bed, his side, when he remembers that the whole fucking bed is his. 

So he ends up lying spreadeagle, and feeling stupid.

  
  


He wakes to the doorbell ringing, and his traitorous mind makes the conclusion that it must be Ed, and he staggers to answer the door, not knowing what he should say or do but he knows it won’t matter because if he gets to see Ed than all’s gonna be fine.

“Good morning, sir,” the delivery girl greets him. “You’ve got a package.”

Oswald is still in his underwear and hopes to god it’s not supposed to be a pun. He slams the door in her face as soon as they’re finished, and drops the matte black box on the floor. 

He washes his face and cleans his teeth the best he can. He’s walking around in the apartment, toothbrush in his mouth. It’s so early. It’s not even noon. Why did the universe have to wake him so early. 

He drops to his couch again, promising himself that he’ll stand up within five minutes, that he won’t let this day go to waste, he won’t give the satisfaction to Ed. 

He gets up to get the box, and reading the company’s name puts a dark smile on his face. The foam of the toothpaste drips down his chin.

“Aaaand… action,” he whispers.  
  


**NIGHTWEAR HAUL: FAIREST OF THEM ALL | xXxThEpEnGuInxXx**

 

The video starts as a vlog, innocent enough with the usual background and Oswald in a The Deep Eynde tee. 

“Be warned, you’re about to see some sponsored shit. Pumped to hear how you like it.”

His smile is natural enough. His eyes are cruel. 

 

The music is dirty and heavy, with the occasional piercing scream and moaning. Oswald is smoking with a cigarette holder on the couch, in the soft glow of the city, wearing nothing but a Victorian-style dressing gown, far too short to be authentic. The tassels of the belt are caressing his naked and bruised thighs; he’s the living image of a forbidden portrait of somebody’s past lover. He opens his mouth, lets the smoke pour down his chin, and the camera focuses on how it’s dissolving between his bitten lips. It turns out he’s got tight leather briefs on under the dressing gown, and he runs his fingers over his exposed stomach absentmindedly. 

The next product is shiny black silk briefs with a matching gown. Oswald christened the outfit Low-Key Mourning My Dead Husband, and he’s reading  _ Gravity’s Rainbow _ , one of Ed’s favorite books, lying on his back. His eyes flash as he looks into the camera, clutching the book to his chest. The next cut shows him walking to the balcony, pulling the curtains apart. His frame is hugged by the passing light of a helicopter.

The third outfit is a proclamation of war. Oswald’s lying on the carpet, playing his Xbox in skull-themed underwear, looking like your regular guy in some post-coital gaming spree, hair messy, smile cocky, his glance promising defeat.

The coup de grâce comes with the final cut: the camera is in line with the edge of the copper tub. Oswald is lying in it in full make-up, apparently naked, bone rings adorning his fingers. He reaches down as he peeks at the camera, shoots out his tongue and his fist closes.  He grabs the wrapping paper, and throws it at the screen.

His soft laughter can be heard as the music becomes louder and louder.

[ _ I am your sinner _ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bkWwDhf-Ms8)

[ _ And your whore _ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bkWwDhf-Ms8)

[ _ But let me tell you something baby _ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bkWwDhf-Ms8)

[ _ You love me for everything you hate me for _ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bkWwDhf-Ms8)  
  


The feedback is just what he expected; the top comment is “wait, was Riddler OK with u uploading this???”

He types out a reply - “im my own person not his property” but then he just sends “idk u should probably ask him ;)”

  
  


Oswald is laying on the narrow mattress, legs spread. Ed made the bed like a good boy, giving Oswald the pleasure to crumple the blanket with his dirty boots. He leaves oily and muddy stains, enjoying every moment of ruining something Ed had worked on.

The room is unbearably quiet. There’s only a stupid clock tick-tocking; Oswald very much would like to shove it to the ground and stomp on it.

The lock clicks, the door creaks. Oswald freezes. The air is not supposed to seize his lungs, his cheeks are not supposed to flush with fresh, slippy blood. He peeks at the shattered screen of his phone: it’s only been ten minutes.

A bag rustles, the sound of steps echoes. There’s a careful thud as Ed puts the bag down.

The empty silence of suspicion. Ed is coming up the stairs of the loft with flat, almost furious steps. Oswald forces himself to stay perfectly motionless: he glares towards Ed’s clouded face that finally pops up.

Ed stops by the rail, crossing his arms. There’s a ridiculous pout on his face.

“Hey,” Oswald says. He sits up on the bed, avoiding Ed’s eyes and he hates himself for it.  _ Not a weakness. _

Ed doesn’t greet him. He refused to look at Oswald as well, so Oswald gains enough strength to glance up at him for a moment. His veily eyes scan Ed all over: Oswald notes the green flannel shirt, the faded grey tee under it, the stubble on his chin and jaw.

Ed sniffs and shuts his eyes. He whispers:

“Of course. The picklock.”

Oswald grins. Before he could say anything, Ed goes on:

“What are you doing here?”

Oswald takes his time. He squints as he stands up, knees trembling, phone slid into the pocket of his leather jacket. He wobbles close to Ed and stops when his approach makes Ed flinch.

“I came to tell you that I love you,” he says quietly. He catches Ed’s eyes with smug serenity. “Just like that. Without any fucking garnish or publicity. I can do this. I want this.” Oswald licks his lips, sliding his hot palms into his pockets. “Listen, tell you what. Right now, this is all I’m able to give you. Take it or leave it. Final offer and all that shit. But you have to realize that there’s life outside of your perfect and totally fake bubble. You have no idea how fucked up I felt in the beginning, how much you killed me with-”

Ed slightly shakes his head. The soft movement is enough to shut Oswald up.

“Because you’ve never told me,” he croaks and gulps. “Look, Oswald, I do appreciate the effort, but right now-”

Oswald holds his hand up, stepping closer. Every step is a low, slow word that’s crumbling out of his mouth:

“I’m. In. Love. With. You. Understand?” he stops right in front of Ed’s crooked figure. Ed stares down at him with baggy, reddish eyes.

“Alright.”

Oswald presses his lips together.

“Please leave me alone.”

“I’ll leave when I get what I came for. After the past couple of days, I fucking deserve to stay and just to be in the same room as you. I deserve to feel the pins and needles that I’ve been missing. Tell me if it’s too much to ask,” Oswald spits.

Ed flinches again. His fingers curl around the rail. He straightens.

“Did you miss me?”

Oswald snorts and takes another trembling step.

“What do you think? Didn’t you miss me?”

Ed parts his lips.

“I did.”

“Shouldn’t be so hard to get to know my answer, then,” Oswald hisses, his freckles whitening. “We both know I’m a liar. Let me be your liar. This true love bullshit will not completely change who I am, and if you don’t want me like this, your loss. We are who we are, Ed. And surprisingly, I could accept you with all your shit, and I still crave you. I’m sorry you can’t do the same.”

Ed’s features harden like Oswald slapped him again. Oswald can’t repress a victorious smile. He turns away, limping towards the stairs.

He hears the rustling of the shirt, and Ed mumbles:

“You can’t manipulate me into this. Not this time.”

Oswald peeks back at him above his shoulder. Ed stares back at him, eyes dark and empty.

“Honesty hour it is, then?” Oswald purrs. His smile turns into a cold and cruel smirk. “Fine by me. I’ve almost cheated on you.”

Ed reacts the way Oswald expects him to. He grabs Oswald by the shoulder, turning him back to face him. His fingers deepen into Oswald’s shoulder, nails sharp through the jacket.

Oswald nuzzles up to him, fingers sliding up to Ed’s cheeks. He cups them and glares up at him: Ed’s lips are trembling, his teeth chatter. He’s like a statue under Oswald’s palms: cold and harsh like marble.  


“Don’t you have anything to say to that?” Oswald whispers. His left thumb slides on Ed’s skin and touches his lips. Ed’s ragged breath is parching his thumb. “Don’t you wanna curse me? Hurt me, crush me, punish me? Don’t you want to make me beg for you to forgive me for even thinking about cheating on you?”

Ed is still silent. He starts shaking again, the veil on his eyes chaotic and vertiginous. He’s close to the edge. He needs a final push.

Oswald tiptoes, lips touching Ed’s as he draws back his thumb.

“What if I’m lying to you now? Lying about not fucking another guy?”

Ed grabs Oswald by the wrist and shoves him on the desk. Oswald hisses; the sharp edge is pressed into his waist. The hiss melts into a whimper as Ed grabs him again, pushing him down onto the tabletop.

Oswald is laying on encyclopedias and textbooks and notes, all pressed into his bones. Ed grabs his ankles - his broken one too - and spreads his legs to step between them. His grip is cruel and firm; Oswald doesn’t try to hold back a cry. Ed’s chest is heaving as he leans above him and bites into his lip.

Oswald curls his legs around Ed’s hips, urging him. His words are muffled with Ed’s teeth in his lower lip:

“Do it.”

Ed’s will shatters to pieces. He starts chuckling; the sound hollow and low, his head dropping. He leans close, fingers letting Oswald’s ankles go. He’s staring at Oswald’s groin as he hisses:

“Tell me you want this.”

“I do.”

Ed nods and glances up at Oswald above his glasses. His teeth flash.

“Take off your clothes,” he croaks.

Oswald swallows back a proud smirk. He stays on his back as he struggles with the jacket and the studded shirt.

In Ed’s eyes, a hungry light flashes. He tears into Oswald’s clothes, ripping everything off him, throwing them onto the bed. When he claws into the pants, pulling it off of Oswald’s pale thighs - like he was skinning him alive -, he exposes the black silk underwear. Ed’s eyes narrow and darken when he sees it, and now Oswald is certain he’s seen the video. The thought makes him utterly satisfied.

Ed leans down, biting into the underwear to pull it off with his teeth. Oswald feels his cold breath on his skin, making him bite his lip. Ed nibbles on his inner thigh as he fumbles with his own belt and pants.

When he straightens, his expression is empty. His stiff cock is pressed to the bite marks, the belt is in his hands. The metal bucket is shining, the leather thuds as he winds the buckle between his fists.

“You’re gonna hit me, huh?” Oswald purrs. Ed doesn’t care.

His slender fingers sink into Oswald’s throat and jaw, forcing him to open up. Oswald obeys, and Ed presses the belt into his mouth, pinning his tongue down. He knots it on Oswald’s nape, way too tight. Oswald moans and bites into the leather; it tastes metallic and sour.

Ed pushes him back.

He feels notebooks and pens pressing against his skull and scapula. Ed starts feeling for something in the drawers of the desk: Oswald closes his eyes and breathes sharply through his nose as he hears the familiar rustling of the condom.

Ed pushes Oswald’s legs apart with his knee and coats himself in lube. He pushes his cock in, sharp and cruel.

Oswald squirms; his cries are muffled with the belt in his mouth. Ed slides his palm onto his chest, pressing him down as he fucks him in a rhythmless dash, the sound of their skin and flesh wet, raw slaps.

Oswald arches his back, holding onto the desk and rail with white, trembling fingers. It feels like being speared - everything he could’ve wished for after the merciless silence of past days. Nails scratching the wood, he moves his hips, making Ed grab him by the neck.

Ed laces his fingers tight around his throat. Oswald is gasping for air desperately, but the belt and the fingers don’t let him breathe. His crooked grin appears as he glances at Ed:  _ don’t you fucking stop. _

Ed’s chest is heaving, his gasps dry and short. Oswald’s cocky attitude maddens him successfully: his eyes flash as he scratches across Oswald’s chest with his free hand, scraping the wounds he made to mark him his. Oswald writhes and grunts and screams; his suffocating grin widens and he throws his back to expose more of his neck for Ed.

Tears burn in his eyes as Ed fucks him deeper. Ed draws his free hand back just to slap Oswald’s thigh and ass.

It’s getting to be too much. White stars start twinkling in front of Oswald, fading his vision; his mind feels empty, like it would spit him out. He’s ready to lose himself, to give into the roughness and cruelty, and then-

Ed comes with a raspy scream. He lets Oswald go, quickly and guiltily.

The silence is soulless.

Ed steps back with hesitant little steps, staring at Oswald through hazy lens, glasses slipped down. Oswald is still shaking; he feels defenseless and cold without Ed’s warmth. Ed grabs him by the hair and pulls him up.

“Don’t touch yourself,” Ed croaks stolidly as he unknots the belt and pulls it out of Oswald’s mouth. “I won’t let you come.”

Oswald rubs his lips and cheeks with the back of his hand, cleaning up the dripping saliva and tears. He’s pale as bones, eyes like glass. Looking up at Ed now feels like a staring contest he doesn’t want to lose.

“Do you think you deserved it?” Ed continues. “Do you think I was fair?”

Oswald chuckles; his voice is husky and weak.

“Look at you… Mr. You-Can’t-Manipulate-Me-Into-This. Are you enjoying your fancied victory?”

“Answer me.”

Oswald pouts and sniffs.

“Yes,” he croaks then.

  
  


They’re lying on Ed’s bed, Ed on his back, motionless and collected, and Oswald spread over his chest, naked apart from the flannel shirt Ed put over his shoulders.

All is well until they break the silence. Ed’s chest rises and falls, and Oswald counts his breaths. He can still feel him inside of him, a rough, dry ache, and he wants to grab him and guide him home again, to feel filled with him again even if it makes him tear up, even if he won’t be allowed to come. 

If he disappeared now, faded away just like magic, all that would be left behind were the teeth marks on Ed’s belt and the bruises where he gripped his flesh. He wants to tear his veins open while he can and paint frenzied confessions on Ed’s skin, a love detectable by luminol, something Ed wouldn’t be able to clean off.

Ed doesn’t touch him. His palms are lying flat on the mattress, wasting away seconds, minutes, opportunities. It would be easier if Oswald wasn’t here, he could just sit at his fucking desk and study the notes Oswald’s wriggling and sweat have probably ruined. He’s certain that Ed wishes him to be gone, and he can’t let him ponder on that, can’t let him convince himself that that’s what he really wants.

“Y’know,” he says, “I’m surprised you’re not scoring this round.”

Ed chuckles. It’s just a small huff of air, but it makes Oswald hope, and he pushes closer, mumbling:

“Say, Eddie, can I keep you?” 

Ed tilts his head to look down at him. Oswald doesn’t meet his eyes. Ed still refuses to touch him, but he blows at his hair, ruffling up the soft locks, and then he can’t hold back anymore, he buries his fingers into the mess and kisses Oswald’s forehead.

“It’s not that easy,” he says.

“What makes it _not_ easy?”

“Us.”

“But it’s always been us,” Oswald counters. “Us against the world, right?” He looks up at Ed. “I’d set this fucking city on fire for you. Once it burned down there’d be nothing left but you and me. You want it? You want me to do it? I swear I would.”

Ed kisses him, but it’s sad and brief. Oswald dies a little as their lips part.

His limbs are numb. Ed rolls him on his back and crawls over him on all fours, regarding him with his hair falling over his face. Oswald wishes he could see right into his gaping soul. Ed kisses him again, the scratch of his stubble so unfamiliar, and then he sits back. Oswald is spread out in front of him, like an offering.

“All my life,” Ed tells him, “I wanted only two things. One, to unravel murder mysteries, to turn my passion into my livelihood, and I’m close to achieving that.” He glances at the desk, then inclines his head, his gaze dropping back to Oswald. “The second thing I always wanted was to be somebody’s boyfriend. I kept daydreaming about it, like some hopeless romantic, and I was certain that should I be given a chance, I’d do splendid, that I’d be the best boyfriend anyone could wish for, and look at us now.”

“It’s not a competition,” Oswald starts, but Ed snaps:

“We’re still losing, damn it.”

Oswald bites down on his tongue. He waits until Ed’s attention is back on him. He’s pasty pale and disheveled, Oswald has no idea when was the last time he had slept, and then he realises he has no idea how Ed spends his day; not only the one and a half they’ve spent apart, but all those days before. He never bothered to ask him about them.

“I need to think,” Ed mumbles, and Oswald pushes himself up on his elbows. 

“Yes, both of us  _ should _ think it over, and make decisions and make rules and so on, but what do you  _ want  _ to do?”

Ed’s eyes dart around, and it’s almost comical, how desperate he is to find something.

“Smoke. Yes, I want a smoke. Care to join?”

“With pleasure.”  
  


 

He collects his underwear from the ground, and grabs the back of the chair to help himself stand up. The panic is momentary: his right leg went numb, and his busted ankle almost gives up underneath him. He massages the pain away the best he can, with impatient, rough rubs, then buttons up Ed’s shirt and joins him on the fire escape. 

Ed is already at the end of his cigarette. The pickle jar he puts his stubs in is overflowing. He fumbles for a crumpled box, and offers his leftover cigarettes to Oswald. There’re only three left. 

_ This is where it all went south _ , Oswald reflects as he puts one between his lips. They were sitting on the fire escape and Oswald was high and babbling away. It’s no accident Ed wants him here again. He sits down next to him, leaning against his shoulder. He won’t let his warmth go to waste. 

The sky is overcast and vast. The city glimmers in the distance, and the windows of the dormitory are all lit up. Ed’s face is illuminated by them as he puts a new cigarette between his lips. Oswald is transfixed. Ed should be sitting in his own bubble of light, buried in his notes, but he’s here with him. For now, he’s here.

Ed blows out the smoke, and announces:

“This is what I want.”

He clasps Oswald’s hand in his. His palm is clammy and cold. 

“This,” Ed repeats. “Us, just… Having a smoke, holding hands, I want these moments we spend together, I want our kisses and our jokes and knowing that you’re mine as I am yours, exclusively, eternally, I want - Everything and anything I can get, but not  _ all at once _ . I can’t do that. That’s too much.” His voice falters, and he observes, grinning: “We’re a YouTube video, not a motion picture.” 

Oswald lets the smoke dissolve and watches his breath, prays that he won’t cough or something, because one inhale could change everything.

“To stick to your metaphor,” he says, “we’re the best fucking vid on the site. Also, sidenote: playlists are a thing.”

Ed closes his eyes. He’s enjoying the smoke, enjoying Oswald’s presence, the silence, the opportunities left open, then he wets his lips. 

“When it burns down,” he holds up his cigarette, “I’ll ask you to leave.”

“Right. Okay. Will you see me out?”

“Of course, Ozzie, I’m not kicking you out. I just need some space.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”  
  


 

So he climbs the steps to the loft when the time is up and dresses up properly while Ed is watching him. He doesn’t allow him to take the flannel shirt off. He helps him put his jacket over it and hugs him from behind. They stay like that, swaying gently like they were drunk, and Oswald starts humming a shanty. Ed snickers. 

Then there’s the long walk to the door, although the place is small. Oswald looks around like fucking Adam when he had to leave Paradise behind.

“So,” he says, “see you around?”

“Yes. I promise. But now, I really-”

Oswald waves it away.

“Have… fun, I guess.”

He pats his chest, because he has no energy left to reach up for his shoulder. Ed bends his knees, gets hold of the doorframe and kisses him. For some reason, he’s really awkward again, lips too taut, tongue too sloppy, but Oswald just loves it. It’s a first-time kiss, not a goodbye kiss.

“Hi,” he whispers into it.

“Hello, Ozzie.”

“Bye.”

  
  


**[The_Legendary_Pink_Dots_-_True_Love.mp3 ♫](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7viVmPuuKZ4) **

 

The copper bathtub is slowly filling up with hot water, the mist clouds the clammy tiles. Oswald plays music from his phone: the lyrics are begging and longing, the rhythm is breathless.

Oswald takes off his clothes with a painful hiss. His whole body is pulsing with warning ache.

The empty satisfaction breaks free in his chest. He steps into the bathtub, sinking into the steaming water, painted deep purple by a blackberry bath bomb.

Oswald takes a deep breath as he leans back, the foamy lines wave around him.

The water is rippling quietly.

Oswald tilts his head so the septum is underwater with the tip of his nose. He blows bubbles.

Ed pops up in a corner of his mind, suddenly and cruelly. The fantasy starts with a shaking flash on an image, the image of Ed leaning over him after sex, lips parted for a bitter kiss. The fantasy keeps spinning like a laterna magica.

Oswald closes his eyes to see him better. He’s on the desk again, pushed into the books, pinned down completely. The pain that’s pulsing inside his groin is eating him alive; his tongue is dry, the taste of leather and cigarettes is like bitter ash.

He opens his mouth underwater and lets the water flow in. He squints then and rises; he turns the tap off with his healthy leg. He nestles higher in the tub. The water reaches the rim, splashing out.

Oswald zones out. It’s almost instinctive how his fingers slide lower on his abdomen and hip, nails scratching his thigh. His desire is an unpeaceful humming in the back of his skull, like radio waves on a forgotten frequency.

He lifts his hips. Fingertips caress along the shaft, his erection building slowly. Oswald shuts his eyes again: his hand is not his own anymore. His fingers are longer, bonier. His hot breath is Ed’s, burning his tongue as he gasps close, lips almost touching. He moans, hurrying himself; it’s nothing but a soft whimper escaping between clenched teeth.

“Come on-”

He entwines his fingers around his cock, moving them up and and down. His skin is not scratchy and dry enough. It’s not enough.

Oswald takes a deep breath and grips himself more firmly. His free hand slides between his cheeks, fingertips circling hesitantly.

He sinks the tip of his index finger inside. The pain is instant. Oswald hisses, his back arches; his nape rests on the rim, head thrown back. It feels like Ed would still be pulsing inside of him, clinging to the scraped flesh hot and pretentious. His thighs start aching too: as the water gets colder, it redraws the bruises of the tabletop.

Oswald bites his lip, whimpering sharply as he pushes a second finger inside. His nails are rugged, hurting him, but he doesn’t want to take care of himself. 

His wrists follow the same rhythm. The water is rippling as Oswald’s fingers speed up the already breathless rhythm. His voice is stronger without the belt: he can moan Ed’s name deep from the bottom of his throat, over and over again.

Ed’s silhouette reappears on his closed eyelids, knees pressed into his back as he holds his lower body higher, slamming into him rough. Oswald chuckles and begs the phantom to fuck him harder, to choke him again.

He’s finally close. It’s difficult to keep up with the rhythm he chose but the sensation of Ed’s presence is still crystal clear. The orgasm feels like a slap, flickering through his veins and seizing his muscles with a cramp.

Semen dribbles into the water. Oswald pulls his fingers out and relaxes, stamina lost.

He only wakes when his teeth start clattering. The blackberry water got cold.

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> 458 likes        2 h   
>  oswald_cobblepot 2:04. ✨ #imdone #goodnight #bedhair #selfie #nomakeup #trash #grunge #followme #oswaldcobblepot
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Waking up in his own bed feels like redemption.

In the first minutes of floating between sleep and wakefulness, he doesn’t even care that he hasn’t slept with Ed in the same bed for over a week.

He wraps himself in the slippery silk covers and peeks up at the rays of light. They’re soft and white; it must be late afternoon. Specks of dust flicker in the beams, dancing and twirling.

Oswald grunts, throat dry. He hold the blanket around him like a robe.

It happens all too suddenly. His crooked leg grew numb at night, and now it gives up under his weight. He falls onto his knees; the burning pain makes him smack on the ground, face upfront.

He tears himself out of the cocoon of the black covers and shoves them away. He leans onto his elbows and tries to push himself up somehow.

Oswald hisses and spits and grumbles. He scrambles to his feet and limps to the window to let some light in.

As he opens the balcony door, smokey and hazy air wreaths into the room. Oswald wobbles out barefoot.

He takes a cigarette from the box he left on the round table. As he lights it, biting the filter, shadows flash on the wall and wings flutter. Oswald breathes out and looks up. Curious birds surround him, tilting their little heads and chittering.

“Right,” he mutters, taking another drag. “Came back once again, didn’t you? Traitors.”

From time to time, these little fellows visit him on the balcony. Oswald feeds them and tames them, trying not to think of them as pets. It does feel like it, though. That’s why he bought a new feeder he hasn’t set up yet. Maybe it’s time.

A black-billed cuckoo flies on his shoulder from behind, tapping on him with his tiny feet.

If he had to choose a favorite bird, it would be him. The cuckoo used to appear in almost every one of his vlogs, but has never been popular on his main channel. Now he pecks at Oswald’s ear, like he’d want to apologize.

“Alright, fine.” Oswald sighs and stubs the cigarette out. “Wait here.”

  
  


Half an hour later, he closes the balcony door and leaves his well-fed fellows alone. He almost disappears in the huge laundry basket as he tries to find something - anything - that’s not too dirty to wear again.

Something knocks against his nails. Oswald narrows his eyes and starts tossing clothes away.

He finds the plush penguin in the basket.

He totally forgot about it.

“Oh shit. Sorry hun’.”

He takes it to the bathroom and washes it in the sink. The plushie soon smells like lavender instead of stuffy smoke. It feels like the huge plastic eyes stare right into his soul.

“Don’t judge,” he murmurs.

  
  


He puts on clothes, suffering with the movements like he’d be deep underwater. He finds his simple black jeans and a black shirt. His silver necklace has spikes, just like his ring.

Oswald grabs his eyeliner and goes crazy with it. He wants everyone to know that his sleeping schedule is just as fucked up as his love life; he deepens the circles under his eyes and smudges the cateye on his lids. His eyebrows are also thicker and more curved than on average days. He doesn’t want to struggle with his cheekbones, but replacing the septum with a bigger one with a pearl in it seems like a good idea.

He flashes his teeth at himself in the mirror.

It won’t get better today.

He’s choked by his own haze of cologne as he wobbles into the kitchen. He’s having strawberry vodka for brunch, poured into the black mug. He spends this meal on the counter, swinging his boots.

He claws into the drawer next to him, opening it and waiting for a miracle. There’s only a rugged box of Cap’n Crunch. Oswald stares at it. Then stares at the vodka. Then back at the cereal.

He shrugs and reaches for the box.

He grabs his stuff and shoves them into his plastic backpack.

He has to go back twice for stuff he forgot.

First, he leaves his credit card inside.

Next, his headphones.

For the third time, his patience.

  
  


He doesn’t bother knocking anymore. That was only required in the first week of their friendship. He slams the door and yells:

“Hello?”

There’s a faint growl from the direction of the living room.

“Shuddup I’m sleepin’.”

Oswald snorts and jiggles the dirt down from his boots. He finds Barbara on the couch in front of the huge window, laying down. She wears nothing but a baby pink, lacy thong and oversized sunglasses. Oswald can’t tell if she’s aware of his presence; still, he limps to the couch and lifts Barbara’s legs by her ankle to make room for himself. Barbara growls again and packs her legs into Oswald’s lap.

Oswald looks her up and down.

“Time to shave, huh?”

“Bite me, Cobblepot.”

“Take it easy, Bigfoot.”

Barbara kicks Oswald’s groin with her ankle. Oswald wails and Barbara blows him a kiss.

“How’s my GBF?”

“Cool. And you,  _ Barbie _ ?”

Barbara grimaces.

“Wasted. Still alive.” She rubs her forehead with the back of her hand. “We had our anniversary yesterday. With Renee.”

“Hm.”

“I got drunk alone. She didn’t come home. I send nudes to strangers I found on Tinder.”

“That sucks.”

“Your empathy is overwhelming.” She clears her throat and shrugs. “Couldn’t care less though. I can cheat on her too, don’t you think I can’t. Someone called back to hook up. Anyway. Why are you here?”

Barbara asks. She knows him, she knows everything Oswald does has a reason behind it.    
  
_ Everything you do and every word you say has an agenda, and I’m tired of it all. It’s boring. _

Oswald shakes his head to quiet Ed’s voice in his head. He throws his head back, mumbling:

“I was just bored. Let’s do something.”

“Each other?”

“You’re so fucking desperate.”

“I’m not!”

Barbara straightens and almost breaks the sunglasses as she tears them off. She points at Oswald with the left earpiece.

“Alright, sweetheart. What do you have in mind?”

“Collab?”

“So original.” Before Oswald could resent, Barbara squeezes her arms together to draw attention to her naked breasts. She grins down at them, being happy with herself, and looks up at Oswald. “Do I have to put on clothes?”

“Yes. Please.”

“Killjoy.”

Barbara waves and shuffles her bare feet towards the bedroom, leaving Oswald alone.

Oswald crosses his legs and rummages out the pack of cigarettes he bought on his way here. He takes one out and stretches his healthy leg to pull the ashtray closer on the table. It’s completely empty.

The first drag tastes like redemption. He breathes the smoke out through his nose, watching the rolling tuft with crossed eyes. He spaces out, not thinking about anything when he feels a presence.

He glances up and jumps.

There’s the little girl, standing right in front of him. He should know her name. Barbara mentioned her sometimes, but Oswald never paid attention. Her gaze is way too intense for her dirty jeans and ruffled red hair.

“Hey?” Oswald tries to flash a warm smile, but it looks like a painful grimace.

The little girl says nothing. Oswald opens his mouth to scold her for being rude, but the girl lifts her arm and holds up a spray bottle, spraying right into Oswald’s open mouth. Oswald yells and spits: the liquid tastes bitter and disgusting. It must be some kind of chemical for plants.

The next sprinkle puts the cigarette out. The filter is soaking.

“You can’t smoke in here,” the little girl says. Her voice is threateningly calm. It suits her death gaze. “Smoke is harmful to plants. They can lose their leaves and stop photosynthesising which means they won’t grow.”

Oswald is staring at her. For some fucked up reason, he can’t fight back. He holds his free palm up to say “I give up”, and flicks the cigarette into his backpack like it was a loaded gun. The girl nods, satisfied but serious, and walks past Oswald to continue caring for her plants.

Oswald glances towards the bedroom. He feels almost desperate and totally uncomfortable. Thankfully, Barbara pops up: she put on a white shirt and a navy blue skirt. She holds two bottles of brandy in both hands.

“The party won’t start till I walk in,” she sings, then stops and crinkles her nose. “Why do you stink again?”

  
  


**Never Have I Ever with  xXxThEpEnGuInxXx #Queenguin | QueenBee**

 

They moved the equipment to the kitchen and sat down in front of the fancy clock window. The lights are soft, the contrast is pale. Oswald keeps feeling quite uncomfortable without his usual dark atmosphere, but at least Barbara is next to him.

“I’m not doing your stupid popping-up-look-who’s-here bullshit.”

“You wanted to do a collab. That’s how I do it.”

“Spare me.”

Barbara raises her eyebrows and gently slaps his nape.

“ _ Whatever _ . Ready?”

Oswald grunts and Barbara takes it as a yes. She welcomes her audience and starts chittering about the Never Have I Ever game, explaining the rules to those who “have no social life”. Granting Oswald’s wish, his introduction is just an unimportant comment that has a comedy effect like everything was fine.

“So we’re both hardcore, and gonna drink instead of... fingering.”

Oswald grunts again, speaking in front of the camera for the first time:

“Next time we’re doing a drinking game where I have to take a shot whenever you make a sexual innuendo. I can’t deal with you today.”

Barbara scoffs and combs her hair with her fingers.

“Only if you let me drink every time you crash my place uninvited, looking and feeling and - of god - smelling like shit.”

“Fuck you. It’s your creepy orphan’s fault.”

“I’ll cut this out. Just act like a normal human being for thirty minutes, will you?”

Oswald sighs and closes his eyes, nodding.

“Fine,” he spits. “Let me start.”

Barbara grins and nudges Oswald with her elbow.

“Now we’re talking!”

Barbara pours some brandy into the glasses, gesturing towards Oswald generously. Oswald runs his tongue over his teeth as he’s thinking.

“Never have I ever been in a car accident.”

Barbara buries her face into her palm, grumbling.

“Oh my god, Cobblepot. Are you really doing this to me now?”

“Drink or do it better.”

“Fine,” Barbara snaps and smirks as she peeks at Oswald. “Never have I ever made a sextape.”

Oswald lets out a growling sigh in return.  _ “I want to record it.” _ Oswald remembers laying under him like a fucking trophy, skinned alive and eyes like veily glass: he let Ed control him, do whatever he pleases. He gave him everything from the very fucking beginning.

Oswald swigs, Barbara doesn’t. Her face lights up.

“I want details.”

“No fucking way.” Oswald closes his eyes and shakes his head.

“Oswald Cobblepot, the king of the two Tubes.”

“It’s on PornHub,” Oswald jokes weakly, nails knocking on the glass. Barbara pours him another shot.

“Give me something better this time.”

Oswald feels the warmth of the brandy in his throat and chest; it’s giving him the power to join Barbara’s theme. He looks into the camera, eyes and voice dead:

“Never have I ever done anal.”

Oswald spits out half of the shot when Barbara drinks too. She screams and holds her palm under Oswald’s chin to catch the drops. Her laugh is almost hysterical.

“Don’t waste my expensive shit!”

Oswald coughs and chokes, his voice muffled:

“ _ When _ ?!”

“Junior year. You really don’t remember, do you?”

“Why would I, was it with me?”

“Okay wait, wait, I’ll give you a clue.” Barbara doesn’t care about the glasses anymore: she grabs the bottle by its neck and stares at Oswald. “Never have I ever been caught fooling around with the captain of the football team.”

She swigs, staring at Oswald the whole time. Oswald opens his mouth in astonishment.

“How was it?”

Barbara shrugs.

“He was always a scorer. Don’t be jealous though.”

“I didn’t plan to.”

“I knew you liked him. Didn’t you make out?”

“I didn’t care. Just wanted to prove no one is straight on the team.”

Barbara squints at the fading high school memories and makes a face.   
  
“Whatever. We have a game to play. Please get your shit together and give me some actual footage I can use. I already tweeted you were here, so y’know, bread and circuses.”

“ _ Fine _ .” Oswald smirks and shoves the shot glasses away. He grabs the neck of the other bottle, opening it up with one hand. “Who’s next?”

“I have a great one.”

“Shoot.”

Barbara flashes a sweet little smile and leans into Oswald’s face to whisper:

“Never have I ever done it with another YouTuber.”

The mouth of the bottle knocks to Oswald’s teeth.

“You bitch.”

Barbara giggles and raises her brows at the camera.

“Now you’ll know, ladies and gentlemen!”

Oswald drinks and Barbara screams. Oswald doesn’t stop at one swig: he takes another, and another.

“Counting people or actions, my dearest slut?”

“Actions,” Oswald spits, ruffling his hair. He feels lightheaded and miserable. He lets himself headbutt the tabletop, planning to stay there forever. “Ed’s the only one.”

He feels Barbara’s palm gently smacking his shoulder; probably just checked if he’s still alive.

“You’re so disgusting.”

Oswald tsks.

“Why am I exactly?”

“You’re head over heels for him.”

For the first time during his friendship with Barbara, Oswald doesn’t snap back with a sassy answer. Instead, he just sniffs and mumbles:

“So what.”

“Dis-gus-ting.”

Oswald snorts and spits:

“I’m sorry I surprised everyone with actually being capable of love.”

Barbara’s palm freezes on his shoulder.

“Playing the love card already? What’s wrong with you?”

“Don’t pretend you care.”

“Don’t be a pussy.”

“You know what I mean.”

Oswald straightens and drinks from the bottle again. He sighs and rubs his lips with the back of his hand. Barbara loses interest in the game too; she draws her legs back and crosses them, following Oswald’s lead to drink without reason.

Neither of them is actually drunk. For Oswald, alcohol only sharpens the thought of Ed in his mind instead of helping it fade. It’s like swallowing needles, scratching and burning his chest, opening up wounds he wants to forget. It was a fucked up idea he talked about him in the video.

Fish wants him to shut up completely.

Jim wants him to be open about it.

Ed wants him to not care about the publicity.

And Oswald himself - he just wants Ed. It’s that easy. He wants his enthusiasm and his rage and his touch and his kisses; his teeth on his neck and his words, breathed into his mouth and spit into his face. His madness and his mind, him cutting him open with a knife, kissing him deep and rough in the rain, smoking on the fire escape, listening to Oswald’s confessions on the pier, telling about his nightmares in the Funfair. He wants Ed’s everything, every scar and every side of him, the ones he’s shown him and the ones he still hides from him. The one he’s always been. The one he could be. The one he will be. And Oswald won’t fucking care as long as he can stay with him.

Oswald sighs.

“Look, I-”

Barbara’s phone starts ringing. She jumps and snatches it, rushing out of the kitchen. She doesn’t give a damn about Oswald anymore.

He’s left alone with the brandys. He can still hear Barbara chattering in the living room, voice higher than usual. The camera is still rolling. His thoughts are stuck in his head.

When Barbara comes back, the front door snaps. Selina steps into the kitchen, welcoming both of them with suspicious glee. She holds a stuffed shopping bag that she smacks onto the tabletop next to Oswald. She almost disappears inside of it, searching and fumbling.

Oswald raises his brows at the thick wallets that turn up from the bottom of the bag. Selina catches his reaction; she sticks her tongue out and shrugs.

“Good girl,” Barbara compliments her and steals a bag of dried peaches from the growing pile of goods on the table.

She starts munching on a slice and nudges Oswald.

“Start primping, baby boy. I’ll take you out.”

Oswald growls softly, clinging to the bottle of brandy.

“Why? Where? Why?”

“You wanted to do things. I’m doing you a favor. Tabitha called.”

“Who the hell is Tabitha?”

“My platonic gal pal. Whom I hooked up with yesterday.”

“Great.”

“She’s with her friends, partying in Salmagundi. She asked us to join. I mean she asked me, but I’ll bring you too because I’m nice.”

“I’d rather die than go to Salmagundi. Only the Straights go there. And there’s  _ dubstep _ .”

Barbara bites into another slice of peach and eyes Oswald up and down, not caring about his comments.

“Are you gonna wear this?”

“I’m not going.”

“Can I go?” Cat asks and hops on the counter with a bottle of milk. She has a wide milk mustache that she wipes off with her jumper.

Oswald stares at her.

“How old are you again? Like, ten?”

“I’m thirteen.”

“Shouldn’t you be in bed? It’s way past seven.”

Before Cat could snap back, Barbara growls. She throws the peaches on the table with a dramatic fling, then reaches under Oswald’s armpits to force him to stand up. Oswald takes revenge completely, hanging in Barbara’s arms like a broken puppet.

“Come. On-”

Barbara lets him go and Oswald smacks onto the tiled kitchen floor. He doesn’t really care; he rolls onto his back and stares at the ceiling.

“I’m not going,” he repeats like a sulky child.

Selina mocks him. She opens up a bag of sour candy and tries to hit Oswald’s face with them. Oswald takes it with the patience of a martyr.

Barbara slides her palm on her forehead and whispers:

“I hate you so much.”

When Oswald’s had enough and scrambles to his feet, the whole bag of candies - except the ones Selina ate as a reward for a perfect hit - fall on the ground like heavy raindrops.

Barbara appears in the door, smelling like honey and almond: her makeup is simple but dominant around the eyes, her hair is freshly washed and dried and curled. She steps in front of Oswald in a really short, really tight black dress.

“Couldn’t fit a bra in there, huh?”

“Didn’t change your mind?”

“Maybe. I want to make an offer.”

Barbara raises an eyebrow and grins.

“I like that. But I have one too. I’m doing your makeup. Same shit I did for our prom. What’s yours?”

“Fine. I have one condition: you can’t post the video.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“I don’t want Ed to see. Do this for me, and I’ll go with you.”

“Ed?” Selina cuts in. “That nerd son of a scientist?”

Oswald grimaces and hold his hand up.

“Don’t you dare. You’re just a kid. You don’t even know what a relationship is.”

“Oh yeah?” Selina straightens her back and leans closer to Oswald. “I’m in one too, you know! And I’m pretty sure my boyfriend could kick your boyfriend’s ass anytime.”

“Now listen here you little-”

“Enough is enough.” Barbara raises her voice and grabs Oswald’s arm to pull him into the bathroom. She whispers into his ear: “Heads up for next time: stop fighting with a kid if you’re gonna lose.”

Selina smirks and celebrates her victory with a jar of Nutella and some chocolate bars.

  
  


In the end, Barbara agreed to not edit the footage, so Oswald lets her have her way with Oswald’s makeup. She uses an even paler foundation on him, contouring dark and sharp features. Oswald has never used highlighter in his life - especially not a shimmery one - and his eyebrows and eyeliner have never been more beautifully curved. He doesn’t want Barbara to know how much he likes the outcome, so he simply grimaces at his reflection.

In return, Barbara calls him an ungrateful bastard and sprays him again and again with her nauseous Versace perfume, like she would scold a bad cat.

After two minutes of fighting and growling, Oswald is finally able to take the bottle away from Barbara.

  
  


Selina stole Oswald’s backpack and hid it somewhere. It takes Oswald approximately thirty minutes to find it in the disgustingly grand living room. Then, it takes Barbara ten minutes to cool both Oswald and Selina off, even though she couldn’t care less about sensitive feelings - she just got bored and didn’t want to be late.

As a propitiation, she presses Oswald’s bottle of brandy into his hand so he has something to be occupied with.

Oswald throws his head back as he drinks. It’s more like an appropriate way to pep himself up than to obey Barbara, who grabs his shoulders and shoves him towards the front door.

Oswald can’t help but grab the frame and lean back just to have the last word this time:

“Shouldn’t we lay down some newspapers for you or-?”  
  


 

Barbara wanted to walk instead of calling an Uber, so Oswald drags his crooked foot along, sipping the brandy to erase the pain. He wants to throw up. Barbara keeps chittering and humming and laughing, hugging Oswald’s shoulder to keep balance.

She’s playing the same part in this fucked up love act like Oswald does; she’s simply way more professional than him.

Oswald’s throat is sore with envy.

>   
>    
> 
> 
> Barbara Kean uploaded a new picture.
> 
> 5 mins  
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> 
> 
> fEELIN GODO — with Oswald Cobblepot
> 
>   
>    
> 

Barbara makes a dash at a tall girl who - according to Oswald’s salty judgement - looks like a prettier and bustier Renee Montoya. Barbara takes Oswald’s hand to introduce him to the New Prey. The music is rumbling but she manages to scream louder:

“Tabby, this is Oswald Cobblepot. He’s my best friend. I called shotgun. Licked him an’ everything.”

“You did not lick me. She did not lick me.”

“Tabitha Galavan. Hello.”

Tabitha shakes Oswald’s hand with a soft grimace. Her grip is firm and dominant, even though her glance wanders: she peeks at Barbara, looking her up and down. She bites her lower lip to repress a smirk.

Tabitha lets Oswald’s hand go and hugs Barbara’s shoulders. Oswald can’t help but grunt; he should’ve known better. After all, this is the script of all their nights they spend together. Barbara keeps nagging him for hours and hours to come and join her. He agrees to, because he finds the answer of “What’s in it for me?” Then, he realises he made a terrible mistake, because he can do nothing but accept the role of the third wheel. And the parties are usually fucking horrible, like this one. Shitty music, playing too loud, and cheap booze.

“First round’s on me, okay?” Tabitha shouts, sliding her hand from Barbara’s shoulder to her waist. Barbara huddles up against her like an innocent kitten. “What do you guys want?”

“Anything that helps me forget where I am,” Oswald says and Barbara chuckles.

“Vodka it is.”

“I’ll be right back.”

Tabitha rests her hand on Barbara’s waist til the last moment; then, she slowly disappears in the crowd, peeking and smiling back again and again.

Barbara dances next to Oswald, poking his waist with her ass. She throws her hands up in the air and spins so her hair glistens in the flashing neon lights. Oswald just stands there like an idiot, so she stops and leans close to his face. She hisses:

“Don’t ruin this for me.”

“What am I supposed to do? Dance?” Oswald snorts and moves his crooked leg. He looks around; this is definitely not his kind of party. “I don’t know why the fuck I agreed to come here.”

Barbara opens her mouth to strike back, but Tabitha appears with three shot glasses between her fingers. Barbara cheers and takes two: she pushes one glass into Oswald’s hand and drinks off her own. Oswald raises his glass to them and follows Barbara’s lead desperately.

He has to decide whether he stays and drinks until he can’t even move. He might find a nice mattress somewhere outside to sleep on, waiting for dawn to come. The other option is to fuck it and scutter.

Like, fuck it right now; now that Tabitha and Barbara tangle together. Barbara keeps dancing, hopping in her high heels, and Tabitha just grins and holds her. Their fingers entwine, Tabby spins her and as Barbara loses balance, they chuckle and hold each other close.

Oswald snorts and turns on his heels.

If Ed was there, they’d just roast everyone here.  

The lights are too bright. The mirrors on the low ceiling make the place claustrophobic. He must get out. He makes his way through the crowd, inching away from Barbara who doesn’t notice his escape, or doesn’t give a shit. She’s swaying to the music, grinding on her new girlfriend. Oswald has half the mind to snap a picture and send it to Montoya or upload it to Instagram, but he can’t be bothered. 

The exit is blocked by a big group trying to get out for a smoke, and an even bigger one trying to get in. Oswald snorts, looks around, and spots a staircase. Perfect. He climbs up a few steps, rising above the mass of people, and then slides down the railing. He does it five or six times to pass the time and occupy his wandering mind, but then he notices a tipsy girl gang laughing at him. He gives them the finger, and they just laugh louder. 

This is not how this evening was supposed to go. If Barbara was a different person, or if he had more friends, better friends, or whatever, he could just invite them over and talk about Ed and his feelings. That’d probably be healthy. Barbara would mock him for the attempt, and he’d hate himself. Her solution to every problem was to go out and grab a drink _.  _

The exit clears, finally, and he wobbles away, chin up, uncaring, and once he’s outside, he stops for a cigarette. He doesn’t want to make it look like he fled. Everyone can go fuck themselves. Especially Ed. 

He needs to win him back. He needs a plan. A strategy. Something. Anything.

The cigarette burns out, all too soon, and he lets it drop. He stomps on it, watching how it flickers up one last time. All he has is this precise moment. He has no idea what happens next, and it’s terrifying. It’s not like him.

He heads off, into the blazing night, dragging his aching leg behind him, head hanging low. He should break into an apartment with nailpolish remover and the possibility of a dress jacket which would fit. He’d take out the septum and comb his hair, wash off his perfect makeup, and go visit his mother. 

He should probably do it. He can’t face the silence in his own apartment, and he won’t go back to Barbara’s. He shouldn’t be left alone, he knows. He’ll get desperate. Do something irresponsible. 

“I’m just stopping by,” he’d tell Gertrud, “finished work early. Did I wake you up?” They’d curl up on the couch, and watch telenovelas, and Gertrud would laugh at the cheap jokes and glance at Oswald to see whether he likes them as well. He’d grin as the fiancé of a millionaire farts at the wedding ceremony and as angry women slap each other, and he wouldn’t be thinking about Ed. He’d be too occupied supervising whether Gertrud takes her medicine after her midnight snack, and how much liquor he mixes into her goodnight tea as she settles to watch the news. She says she needs the alcohol to make her heart braver, that he can’t watch how evil this world is, one needs to be at least tipsy, and then she’d drink too much and watch all the catastrophes with childlike wonder.

But after - after all that, he’d be soaking in the tub and Gertrude would comb his hair, sitting on the edge, and rub his back, and ask him about Ed. He’d have to pretend that everything was fucking fine, more than fine, that he and Ed are just the perfect match, that they go out to dance and to socialize every evening and then Ed sees him to the door as any gentleman should, and they say goodbye with a chaste kiss and are looking forward to a spring wedding.

For the first time in his life, he wants the lies he tells his mother to be real. Partially, at least.

  
  


He goes to Robinson Park, because apparently, he hates himself and wants to die. He kinda wishes he got mugged; his life belongs to Ed, and wouldn’t it be nice take it away from him, if only he could do it.

He walks on the poorly illuminated paths, and then strays off onto the grass. He doesn’t waste a glance on the homeless loitering about; they seem harmless enough, but then again, this is Gotham.

Oswald breathes through his mouth so he won’t smell the stale air of hopelessness, which mingles with the lush scent of the grass. He makes his way through the darkness, step by step. A couple is fucking behind a tree, and someone stands there watching, and Oswald idly wonders whether they’re paying her to do it, then forgets about the scene.

He finds the place where he first met Ed in the flesh, and hopes that the junkies didn’t leave any needles lying around on the ground as he lays down.  The grass is cold and wet, soaking through his shirt. A chill creeps up his spine. The sky is starless. He looks up, watching the dark leaves ruffling. It’s oddly calming. 

He closes his eyes. If he tries hard enough, he might be able to summon Ed. Maybe he’s just late again. 

He doesn’t fall asleep, but he zones out, the tu-whit of the owls, the murmur of the wind and the thump of heavy steps all far away. The booze sits heavy in his stomach. There’s a scream, which stops abruptly. He hardly notices when his phone starts ringing. He fumbles for it, and squints at the bright screen. He lets out a shaky breath.

 

> _ Edward Nygma is calling _

 

His thumb hesitates above _ accept _ . He’s so fucked. The mere prospect of hearing Ed’s voice again gets him shivering, and his own half-croaked  _ hello _ doesn’t sound familiar at all. Ed peeps:

“Ozzie!”  He sounds surprised, like he wasn’t the one who called him. 

Oswald sniffs, and keeping his eyes closed fancies that Ed is there with him, that he’s laying his head in his lap.

“Hey. What’s up?”

He runs his hand through the grass. Then he gets a fistful, and tugs them out.

“Nothing much, uhm, I guess,” Ed mumbles. “I’m studying. Not right now. Right now, I’m taking a break. And talking to you. About it.”

“Uh-hum.”

“My schedule is in complete shambles,” Ed goes on. “I mean, I wanted to finish at least four semesters early, so I needed to double my credits, but I’m not sure it was aaa, good idea. And usually my ideas are really good. Not this one? Turns out you gotta pay when you overstep your credit limit, and uhm, yeah. Whose idea was that, huh? So yeah.” 

He trails off, and Oswald fills in the silence with imagined accusations, that their relationship was one of those bad ideas, that this is what this little speech was about. 

“How many exams do you have this semester?” he asks, trying to fight off his paranoia. He doesn’t care about the answer, but he blinks in surprise anyway when Ed tells him:

“Sixteen.”

“How the hell?”

“It’s perfectly doable. It’s just a question of time-management. I’m good at that. Tickler files.”

“What are those?”

“Well, it’s pretty simple. You’ve got ninety file folders, blue, red and white, all numbered one through thirty-”

Oswald doesn’t pay attention. He’ bored. It’s not the conversation he wants to have with Ed, but he doesn’t feel like interrupting. He needs to keep him talking, keep him on the line, keep him close. Still, he can’t help blurting out:

“Why did you call me?”

Ed pauses.

“I wanted to hear your voice.”

“You think we can just have a nice little chat after all that's happened? Like nothing happened?”

Pause again.

“Why are you making it difficult?”

“You wanted to hear my voice? Tell me, how can you hear me over your own voice?”

The irritated sigh Ed lets out crawls at Oswald’s throat.

“Look, Ozzie, if you can’t communicate like a normal human being - I’m not saying I’m surprised. I don’t know what I did expect, anyway.”

“Don’t hang up.”

“Why not? You don’t want me to speak.”

“I do.”

“Yeah, right.”

“I want you to tell me about how you’re doing. How you’re feeling.”

“Ozzie.”

“I don’t care about your fucking exams. They don’t matter.” He rolls to his side. Curls up.

“They do matter to me.”

“Do I?”

“ You won’t manipulate me into this ,” Ed says, overly confident. Oswald is tempted to try, to show him what he can make him do, make him confess to. “We shouldn’t focus on our emotional states. As of present, it’s a setback. You know it as well. It’s a weakness. Let’s just talk as friends. We’ll figure something out later.”  

“We’re more than friends. I love you. I don’t fucking care if it makes me weak, if you think it makes me pathetic-”

“I never said that. It’s a weakness we share.”

“If it goes on like this, and you leave me-”

“Stop twisting my words. I never said I’d leave you.”

“You leave me,” Oswald insists, “what will you say to your next boyfriend, girlfriend, whatever? I mean, about the scars. When they touch them and ask about them.”

Ed chuckles. Interesting.

“What would you tell your lover?”

“I’d say your name.” When Ed fails to reply, he adds, gently: “Eddie.”

“I love you. I don’t want to leave you. I don’t think I can. I love you so much it bursts my chest and-”

“Yeah. I get it.”

“You do, that’s the point,” Ed splutters. “You know me, you know how I feel, you’re the only one. You understand, but you, you just gather data and see how you can exploit it, you don’t just enjoy the solution, you want to utilize everything, even- even your love towards me.”

“That’s me,” Oswald agrees. “And you like it.”

“Yes. I shouldn’t.”

“You think it makes me clever. Clever in a different way as you’re clever. That we’re a combined intelligence.” 

“We are,” Ed’s voice breaks. “We were made for each other. But it’s- It does make us weak.”

“So you want it, and you don’t want it,” Oswald sums up, and Ed chuckles again, desperate.

“I think we're just gonna to have to be secretly in love with each other.”

“It’s hardly a secret.”

“It’s a quote. You really don’t watch any movies, do you? It’s from the Royal Tenenbaums. Not the kind of movie I normally enjoy, but then again-”

Oswald hisses:

“If we start discussing fucking movies I swear to god I’ll hang up and you won’t be hearing from me for three days, how would you like that?”

There’s an offended little silence, and then Ed notes, voice cool:

“I could always stalk you. Send my regards to Barbara.”

“Don’t start. You know I make my living from social media.”

“Do they pay you to go clubbing while I’m just left sitting here-”

“It was her idea! You know it’s all for show, my Insta-perfect life, my- You’re the real thing.”

“It feels too real, actually. You go out, have fun, and I just sit by my writing desk and can’t focus on anything and I waste hours and cry my heart out. Is it supposed to comfort me that you were  _ upset  _ while hanging out with your best friend? I was alone.”

Oswald sits up.

“Well, you know what to do about that.”

“I don’t! I miss you, and- You just criticise every solution I come up with, and you don’t even come up with your own, how are we supposed to resolve this?”

“Make-up sex?”

He means it as a joke, to lift the mood, but Ed doesn’t get it.

“We did that already. Did it help?”

“Not really, but it was good, wasn’t it? It was so good, Eddie. You didn’t regret it, did you?”

“No,” Ed confesses, the word barely a whisper. 

“Do you know where am I now?”

“Don’t tell me. If you care about us, you won’t tell me.”

Oswald squeezes his eyes shut again. He can see sunlight, a mini meetup. Ed stumbled into his life. He was late. He didn’t know yet that they had the power to ruin each other. He looked at him like he wouldn’t care.

“I want you to be with me always,” Oswald tells him, a prayer, a command, or maybe he’s just begging. “I want you to be by my side, you belong with me.”

“If you told me where you are, even if you were the moon, I’d come for you,” Ed says, and Oswald chuckles, half-sobbing. “I don’t know what I’d do. I’d just want to be with you. But it’s not possible. Not yet. We have to make it possible. It won’t just happen.”

“Listen to me, Ed Nygma.”

“Yes?”

“Are you listening?”

“Uhm, yes?”

“You need to decide what you want more,” Oswald says. “Being proven right, that love is a weakness - or being wrong, but being with me. Your call.”

He hangs up, and drops the phone to the ground.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much thanks to Julie for beta'ing the chapter ☆
> 
> We've got the best readers ever - check out these fanarts & mixes!  
>  **Fanart**  
>  1\. [ necronine](http://longstoryshortikilledhim.tumblr.com/post/145018847601/necronine-i-only-want-the-penguin-ed) illustrated the Fun Fair scene from the previous chapter, when Ozzie gets his penguin plushie - the expressions are priceless  
> 2\. and have a look at their utterly gorgeous and heartwrenching [ fanart](http://longstoryshortikilledhim.tumblr.com/post/145712050741/necronine-his-thumbs-touch-oswalds-cheeks) where Ed comforting a cyberbullied Oswald  
> 3\. the lovely [ quankk](http://quankk.tumblr.com/post/148910274727/holy-fuck-guess-whos-finally-got-a-wacom-tablet-i) 's Ozzie is just the cutest ever - it's straight from his Instagram 
> 
> ****8tracks**  
> **  
>  1\. they made an amazing [ playlist](http://longstoryshortikilledhim.tumblr.com/post/145567938866/quankk-a-different-kind-of-burn-this-mix-has) as well, with Placebo, Panic! at the Disco, Muse and many more. the cover art is on point!  
> 2\. [ ednygma](http://ednymga.tumblr.com/post/144791099116/were-so-controversial-this-is-the-price-you-pay) made us the angsty playlist we all need titled "We’re So Controversial (This Is The Price You Pay For Loss of Control)" - so fitting!  
> 3\. there's one [focusing on Oswald](http://ednymga.tumblr.com/post/144792106681/ive-always-known-there-was-something-to-be) \- sweet and broken and brilliant  
> 4\. and another one [for Ed](http://ednymga.tumblr.com/post/144792659581/a-breath-of-chance-matter-listen-one-last-mix) [ _my heart goes bum bum bum_ is autumn's personal favourite] 
> 
> **Thank you so, so much for your creativity and enthusiasm, and sorry we had to keep you waiting.**  
>  Find us on tumblr: [ captaincuppy](http://captaincuppy.tumblr.com/) //[ longstoryshortikilledhim](http://longstoryshortikilledhim.tumblr.com/) // #boyfriendtagfic  
> [](http://longstoryshortikilledhim.tumblr.com/tagged/boyfriendtagfic)  
> 


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